


When We Collide

by topcatnikki



Series: stammi vicino and other lies we tell ourselves [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Canon Compliant, Chris is the MVP of kicking Victors ass, Christophe being the MVP of smack downs, Communication, Depression, Dorks in Love, Drinking, Established Relationship, Eventual Fluff, Falling In Love, Fixed Character POV, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I swear to god they're happier than ever in the end, Lack of Communication, M/M, Mama Katsuki is a Victuuri shipper, Pain, Post-Canon, Relationship Problems, True Love, although Victor kicks his own ass a lot too, happy endings, it's just gonna hurt a lil to get there, letś end this, sad victor, this fic hurt to write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2020-12-27 19:09:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21123767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/topcatnikki/pseuds/topcatnikki
Summary: Victor can't put a date to the day he realised he was out of love, there was no tolling bell to signify the change or any momentous turn of his heart, it happened in the same way he'd learned to love. Slowly, surely, like gravity pulling him in. Days laid in bed with their fingers twined and their lips connecting had turned into hurried kisses to the cheek as Yuuri rushed out of the door. Hours of conversation late into the night had become muttered 'goodnights' and waking up to empty beds.It's only having experienced the love that Yuuri is capable of that highlights its absence.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SophieDoodles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SophieDoodles/gifts), [Clarinda0110](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clarinda0110/gifts), [kanzaki19](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kanzaki19/gifts).

> So this is a little story that woke me up one morning fully formed and prodding me to write until I sat and wrote an outline for it on discord… then my good friendo Lii mentioned that there just happened to be an angstbang happening and now here we are, many months later with a fully finished and shiny new fic for the first time in years :’) It even has art! Lookit all of the beautiful art that [@clarinda](https://twitter.com/Clarinda?s=17) made for this!!
> 
> This fic will be especially enjoyed to the sound of Muse’s amazing album Black Holes and Revelations because it hits every goddamn note on that album (yes even the cowboy ones (okay I lied not the cowboy ones))
> 
> Thank you to the Mods and Admin of the Angstbang, who really nailed the holy hell out of this project and were always willing to hear the cries of pain from their participants - you guys are amazing and deserve all of the bread! Entire loaves of bread I say!!!
> 
> Enjoy, let me know how this evil fic made you feel! See you in the authors notes xD

Victor can't put a date to the day he realised he was out of love, there was no tolling bell to signify the change or any momentous turn of his heart, it happened in the same way he'd learned to love. Slowly, surely, like gravity pulling him in. Days laid in bed with their fingers twined and their lips connecting had turned into hurried kisses to the cheek as Yuuri rushed out of the door. Hours of conversation late into the night had become muttered 'goodnights' and waking up to empty beds.

It's only having experienced the love that Yuuri is capable of that highlights its absence.

They'd married in the spring, a year after their first season together. Laughing as Yuri Plisetsky had wrangled an excited Makkachin down the makeshift aisle with matching rings tied to her collar. The ceremony was beautiful, perfect spring weather as they announced their love for one another in a far more reserved setting than live television and competition ice. Just them, their families and friends, and the soft waves of Hasetsu beach to witness.

It had been a whirlwind, just as their romance had been. All topped off with a honeymoon that made even Victor feel extravagant.

It had been  _ perfect. _

Together they had gone on to their next season, training daily and sharing steamy nights, bickering over dishes and fussing over Makka on their rest days. He showed Yuuri the city piece by piece, they shared interview space and magazine shoots, they shared every meal and every smile so entwined with one another as they were.

And now they aren't. Now they're not perfect.

Now the flirty bickering has segwayed into real arguing and biting comments. The smiles they share are led out like show ponies, a reflex to the sound of camera shutters and applause. It comes in waves, disapproval, disappointment, lack of interest. It grows between them like a cancer, eating up the bright places where once they'd met and spreading outward until its thick and cloying in the air between them.

No, Victor can't put a date to the day he realises he's out of love, but he can feel the void where the affection once bloomed and died.

They don't talk about it. They don't acknowledge the rift that's growing between them.

They work, they sleep. Victor binge-watches Netflix shows on his laptop and Yuuri curls on the couch with a PS4 controller and headset. They live in a holding pattern and negotiate the airspace. They never seem to land.

* * *

  
  


Victor finds a bar. It's one of his and Yuuri’s old haunts, back from the days when they used to be  _ together _ . Victor’s the kind of masochist that wallows in his own defeat these days. He sits at the bar, back turned to the table they used to frequent, facing away from the memory of the chest-caving feeling of love he'd felt back then.

Vodka isn't Victor's actual drink of choice, even if he is Russian. He and Yuuri had always stuck to the lengthy wine list and sunk a couple of bottles over the course of the night, indulging in the off-season and in each other's company. Victor drinks and Victor reminisces. His mind flits from event to event. The good and the bad. He punctuates each memory with another drink, another way to ease the pain.

He isn't sure when they'd stopped loving one another, he doesn't know when the love ran out. What he does know is that he's been lonely for so long that the initial sting of rejection has become a background buzz of white noise. It's there, it hurts, but just ignore it and keep going. Acknowledging its existence only makes him sadder, makes him ache for the days when he and Yuuri would reunite after being apart for a scant few hours with bruising kisses and keen hands. The days when they had fought together to  _ be  _ together, wheedling Yakov into keeping their rink times together and Skype calling into the night when competitions forced continents between them and sleep seemed like an unnecessary afterthought.

Maybe that had been it, the distances. Not by choice but by necessity they were separated; hitting the podium together at Worlds their first season had flung them asunder in a very literal way the following year. Yuuri skating Cup of China and Trophée de Paris, Victor landing Rostelecom and Skate America in the following year’s Grand Prix series, separated for long weeks which had culminated in the bitter feeling of disappointment when Victor had aggravated an ancient injury and been kept from the final. 

A trifling thing, a flare up, but one which had cost him his last season skating with Yuuri. He'd been trapped in St Petersburg watching the GPF on their TV with Georgi doing his best mother hen impression while Yuuri and Yurio battled it out for the Gold. Yuuri had won, Yurio falling to bronze behind Altin and looking incredibly torn about how proud he should be of his best friend. Yuuri had been beautific at the apex of the podium, glowing and triumphant and Victor had watched with Georgi’s commentary droning on. 

He'd been jubilant, bowled over by the display on screen, so so happy for his husband he wanted to run all the way to Helsinki and congratulate him himself with a kiss that would break the internet again. Victor tells him as much on the phone, sandwiched between press conferences and Gala skates, Yuuri chuckles ruefully at the suggestion and tells him to rest up – he’ll see him at home.

The dismissal hurts a little, but Victor knows it's meant well, only a few words no matter how they pinch at the edges of his ego. It’s only when Yuuri arrives home, wheeling his cases and exhausted from travel that it starts to actually hurt. Yuuri tells him to not strain himself when he gets back; he dismisses Victor back to bed and flops onto the couch with only the barest of greetings. Victor lies in bed for hours, watching the street lights reflected on the ceiling and waiting for Yuuri to come, to hug and kiss him with breathless laughter. Yuuri doesn’t come, and Victor falls into a restless sleep that has him edgy and annoyed in the morning. 

Victor had sat on it, had crushed it downward and smiled for Yuuri through the stifling feeling that was rising under his ribs. Hurt. It hurt and Victor had left the feeling there, festering behind his smiles as Yakov had commandeered Yuuri’s coaching that season, delegating Victor to choreo and no ice time for fear of further injury. Yuuri had agreed. Infuriatingly calm in the face of Victor’s anger and upset at the situation. 

_ “I know you want to coach me Victor, but I want you healthy–” Yuuri had been patient, reasonable, and earnest. Victor had wanted to break his own skates he was so angry. _

_ “I can coach perfectly fine from the boards, Yakov does and he’s–” _

_ “–been doing it for  _ years.  _ Victor, you don’t coach like that and you wouldn’t want to.” Victor had felt his face twist, lips pulling down. “Give it a few months and see where you are, let yourself  _ heal _ …” _

Victor added the anger he felt to the growing sourness in his ribs, smashing it downwards and cheering Yuuri from the sidelines and hugging him with a bright smile in the Kiss and Cry. 

The sour black feeling only grew, compounded and compressed into a solid mass in his chest that cloyed at the back of his throat and reached up at the most inopportune times. The banquet at Sochi, the makeup chair before a photoshoot, one night when they’re off-season and spending time with Yakov's skaters. It makes itself known and Victor crushes it back down with bright smiles and boisterous laughter. The laughter has faded now; it’s been swallowed slowly and inexorably over the course of years, and now all that is left is the bitter feeling that Victor isn’t needed, that he isn’t necessary to Yuuri’s happiness. 

The sting of the vodka on his tongue tastes almost as real as the void in his chest. Almost. It’s not truly helping, but Victor keeps on anyway, signalling the bartender with a flick of fingers. He has nothing to go home to anyway, so he may as well enjoy himself.

The apartment is bare now, no Makkachin clawing at the door when she heard the keys rattle from Victor’s pocket. No Yuuri tonight either; he’s been in Detroit for ten days with Celestino and a barrage of new young skaters who want to hear everything they can from a world class athlete. No space for Victor there. He hadn’t even bothered to ask, so sure of the rejection by now that he’d saved himself the trouble of getting hurt by forestalling in the asking. 

The barman fills Victor’s glass again with a tiny frown, but doesn’t comment. Victor’s grateful for the respite. He’s here to drink and nurse his wounds, after all, not to spill his guts and end up on the front page of Gawker. 

The bar closes at midnight, patrons filing out dutifully when they’re asked. Victor goes with little resistance and only a wobble to his first few steps, he corrects himself before he gets out into the chill of the March air. The weather is a reflection of his mood, last remnants of the cold snow turning to sleet and soaking into his coat as he wanders home almost as fully as the emptiness in his chest engulfs him, the vodka loosening his hold on the beast it’s become and pulling him under. 

It doesn’t take long to wander the well-trodden path back to the apartment; unsteady steps or not Victor has done it more times than he can count. The cold bites at the apples of his cheeks and his fingers are numb in his pockets by the time he’s negotiated the staircase up to their place; he fumbles for the keys, dropping them loudly and wincing at the lack of reaction that garners from the other side of the door. No excitable poodle to greet him, no husband either, just the dark void of the apartment as he slams the door behind himself harder than he’d anticipated. 

He doesn’t bother with the lights until he finds the en suite, flicking the switch and wincing at the contrast as his eyes adapt to the change and he catches his reflection in the wide mirror over the double sinks – his side is crowded with toiletries and products, Yuuri’s is just the bare bones left behind during his travels. His reflection is barely worth a glance, hair falling sloppily into red-rimmed eyes that scream a lack of sleep and one too many of the vodkas he probably should have eased back on several hours ago. He scrubs his face with tepid water, brushes his teeth perfunctorily, and fills a water glass before flicking the light back off and shuffling back to the empty bed, narrowly avoiding spilling his water on the sheets when his shin connects with the mattress.

The sheets are cold against his skin and he hates it. He hates how empty it is and how much he misses Yuuri. Yuuri who doesn’t need him, who settled into a pattern with Yakov that left little space in his career for Victor. Yuuri who barely wanted his input on choreography these days, forging his own path ahead and leaving Victor alone in their empty apartment. 

He’s not sure when he started crying, but once he’s aware of the tears they seem so so shameful, so self-indulgent. He should be proud. He should be the proudest husband alive right now, but he’s not. He can’t be proud when it hurts so much. It hurts to be this lost and alone, to feel so unwanted. 

His tears are bitter on his lips.

* * *

Consciousness comes in fits and starts. He turns away from the first rays of sunlight that hammer against his aching head, mutes the buzzing phone alarm that drills incessantly at his skull, and silences the phone call that comes in without checking the caller ID. 

It’s an hour later that Victor realises his mistake. 

The apartment door is shouldered open noisily and he hears Yuuri thanking someone in his lyrical Russian, a taxi driver presumably. Victor has always loved Yuuri’s Russian, it flows so beautifully from him with his accent curling around the vowels like a caress - but hearing Yuuri’s voice when Victor’s mouth is soured with his hangover and his eyelids are sandpaper against his retinas has him groaning into the pillow that’s damp with sweat. 

He feels fucking terrible.

“Victor?” Yuuri calls him, voice carrying through the open bedroom door easily and Victor stifles a second groan. He can hear the wheeling of cases as Yuuri hauls himself into the apartment. “Are you okay? Vitya?” Victor tries, he really does, but he can’t manage to be upright to greet his husband yet. Yuuri enters the room in a rumble of cases and socked feet and pulls up short. The silence that falls is almost as heavy as the cloying alcohol-soaked air of the bedroom. Victor can feel the stare – feel the weight of it as he curls further into the sheets and tries so so hard to make himself smaller.

Everything hurts, but the most painful thing is feeling Yuuri’s disapproval beating down on him. 

“I thought you were in Detroit.” The words come out in a croak, voice rough and hard in a way that sounds oh so accusing.

“I was.” Cold, Yuuri sounds so cold and distant and Victor can’t bring himself to look at him. “I came back early to…” Victor can picture the shrug that goes along with the trailing sentence, careless in its casual dismissal. Victor vaguely ponders the possible ends of the thought that Yuuri had abandoned.

_ To put in ice time for Worlds. _

_ To talk over my programme with Yakov. _

Nothing for Victor though. 

Yuuri unpacks his cases, shuffling around the bedroom on his socked feet, so careful not to draw Victor's attention that Victor falls into another hangover-induced stupor. When he wakes next it's to an empty apartment and a scribbled note explaining Yuuri’s ‘Gone to the rink’. Gone also are the ‘love you’s, the kisses, the comfort in knowing that Yuuri misses him as much as he misses Yuuri. 

The note crumples in his fingers.

* * *

They follow their established pattern. 

Yuuri throws himself into training, spending hours out of the apartment between the gym and rink and slinking back only to bathe and sleep. Victor spends his days in the ballet studio with Lilia, refining and working on programmes. 

He’d started to accept commissions in the month his injury healed, working closely with Yurio to create him a program as the reigning Grand Prix winner that would not only show off his flair but allow him to grow into the programme, being easily changed around his oncoming growth spurts. 

The success of both his own choreographing during his skating career and the programs he had created with Yuuri and Yurio had him in high demand as the announcement of his change of focus went viral. There had been much lamenting in the Russian and worldwide press of his new career path, and Victor had suffered several rounds of intrusive questioning in interviews as to why he had finally retired.

No one seemed to want to know Victor Katsuki-Nikiforov, choreographer to medallists around the globe – they wanted the Russian Hero and five-time Worlds champion. 

So Victor faded away into the obscurity of the supporting player, crafting beauty for the ice even if he were a step removed; and Yuuri continued to surpass even Victor’s wildest imaginings, medalling three golds consecutively in the year Victor retired. 

Yuuri had called it a fluke, the coalescence of Victor’s retirement and Yurio’s growth spurt allowing him to sweep the season with Otabek Altin and Phichit Chulanont nipping at his heels and duking it out for the silver and bronze spots. It had annoyed Victor at the time, that dismissal of Yuuri’s talent by Yuuri himself. Yes, Yuuri had always been modest to a fault about his ability, but the easy way he had downplayed the beauty of his performances had grated against Victor’s own vanity in a way that left a sour taste in his mouth. 

Victor loved choreographing. He loved helping skaters realise the breadth of their talents, and he loved seeing the routines come to fruition on the ice. 

He didn’t love the distance it drove between himself and Yuuri. The way he would be stuck in Russia as Yuuri toured the world stage. The fact that he would be flooded with requests for months to the point that he’d spend almost entire days working through choreo until his calves ached and his head thumped, returning home only to pack his cases and fly to consultations across the continents.

Victor’s current choreography project was a short program for one Kenjirou Minami, ultimate Yuuri Katsuki-Nikiforov fanboy and Japan’s 2022 Olympic hopeful. His coach had been effusive in her praise of Victor’s skills as a choreographer and had sought him out for advice during the last All-Japan. They’d come to an agreement for a short program over e-mail, and Victor intended to show it to them after Worlds in Sapporo. 

  
  


* * *

With only days until he and Yuuri were scheduled to fly out, Victor was putting in hours at a time in the studio, having Lilia and Yakov look over the framework of the thing. He could live without the feedback, honestly, but if he didn't keep Yakov – and by default, Lilia – involved, they tended to make the kind of fuss that left him with a headache.

Victor didn't see Yuuri until the night before their flight. They ate a meal sat at their tiny dinner table, Yuuri chatting about their travel plans and Victor nodding along and smiling when appropriate – he reminded Yuuri to check them into their flight and Yuuri told him to make sure their passports were out. 

It's a fairly apt summation of their relationship these days, Victor thinks. They pass each other like ships in the night, barely saying a word outside of the necessities, and go on with their lives. 

Yuuri packs his costumes, fiddling with the fold of his short program outfit in its bag as Victor finishes packing toiletries. They get into bed soon after. 

  
  


Victor doesn't really want to go to Sapporo if he's completely honest with himself. The last time he'd been there had been to skate Worlds and hope longingly that Yuuri Katsuki would be there. Now Victor is here, and Yuuri is here, but nothing feels right. They're like puzzle pieces with the edges roughed and chipped after abuse. They fit, sometimes, but mostly they're disparate and separate entities. 

The crowds are wild in their adoration as Yuuri shows up to open practice; they cheer encouragements for each jump and run through. Victor stands at the sidelines, Yakov keeping him company and keeping one eye on Yurio as he marks the jumps of his Free to focus on his step sequences. As they watch, Yuuri skates over to Yurio and starts talking to him, gesturing and smiling as Yurio nods and skates towards the boards.

"Yakov, Katsudon wants me to reconsider the placement of the Quad Toe and move it up a little to give me a bit more momentum build up for my step sequence." Yurio doesn't so much ask, as tell but at a lower volume than he once would have, "That okay?" 

They fall into a discussion of Yurio's jump elements, dissecting the suggestion quickly, and Yuuri skates up for a short water break and soon gets drawn into the conversation. 

They don't ask Victor's opinion.

The open practice continues, Yurio incorporating the changes they had settled upon, and Victor watches Yuuri and Yurio grinning triumphantly at one another across the rink when the new elements come together seamlessly. 

Victor wants to shout. He wants to break the silence that's seized hold of his vocal chords and just scream out his frustration. It's  _ his _ job to make Yurio look amazing, it's his  _ job _ . Even in this he's being squeezed out, edged off the side of the ice and forgotten about. 

It feels like nothing. It feels like everything. It feels like he's the last person who remembers who Victor Katsuki-Nikiforov is. 

The anger he'd felt so so many months ago comes roaring back with full throttle, screeching into his psyche and claiming the space where once it had been positivity and joy. It's a poisonous cloying furious thing, this anger. It balls his fists and grits his teeth with the bitter taste that fills the back of his throat.

  
  


He shouldn't be this angry, he shouldn't be this upset over a single change to a single program. Victor should be happy that Yuuri and Yurio are working together to bring out the best in each other. He should be smiling and cheering louder than any skating fan in the stadium for the love of his life, not stewing in the sour taste of being unwanted. 

But it hurts. The anger compresses his chest and wrings his throat. It stings his eyes and pinches his lips into the tiniest twitch of upset.

It  _ hurts _ .

It hurts even as he punches the anger back, determined not to show it. He can't let anyone  _ see _ . 

He smiles when Yuuri nails a quad flip and it feels like it's tearing his jaw in two to do it. It feels cracked and broken around the edges, but he keeps it up. The smile he'd learned and leaned on for so so many years is back and it's contorting his features into a mockery of delight as he watches the practice continue. 

No one sees Victor on the sidelines falling apart, because no one – not even Yuuri – really sees Victor anymore.

Victor's fingers are shaking when he takes Yuuri's gear from him. They've been shaking on and off since Yurio had come to the boards and he isn't sure why, nor how to stop it. He grips the handle of Yuuri's case hard to steady himself, and kisses Yuuri's cheek in greeting. He's freshly showered and gives Victor a passing smile as Yakov intercepts him on their way out of the rink. Their conversation dominated the entire taxi ride to the hotel, and they agree to meet for dinner that night to discuss the weeks schedule and coordinate.

Victor wishes he could just call off the dinner, that he could curl up under the covers and ignore the growing void in his chest. Instead he grabs a shower once they're back in their room and spends a minute trying to calm himself down when his hands start shaking against his chest when he's rinsing off. He's so focused on squashing the chasm that is inhabiting his chest that he double takes at the sight of his costume bag in the wardrobe, the clear PVC panelling revealing the violet and silver of his Stammi Vicino costume – the duetto version of the costume.

His voice is hoarse when he uses it, ragged with the feeling of constriction at his throat. He clears it and the words are hesitant, "Yuuri... what is this?"

"Hm?" Yuuri is on the bed, scrolling through his phone and looks up with a glance at Victor's question. "Oh, it's for the exhibition."

It's said so blithely, so offhandedly that Victor is stumped for a response. He hadn't even been asked. He hadn't even been consulted.

"The exhibition." The words are so flat Victor half expects Yuuri not to hear him, to continue scrolling through Instagram, but Yuuri looks up and shrugs.

"I'd like to skate it on home soil." 

There's no leeway for discussion in the way Yuuri says it, as though it's a foregone conclusion that Victor is going to skate it with him. Which of course it is. Victor would never ever allow Yuuri to go out to their skate alone, but the fact that he hadn't even been asked has the tightness in his throat constricting again. 

Yuuri's phone pings, saving Victor from having to answer when Yuuri tells him Yakov is waiting for them in the lobby with Yurio and Mila. He nods when Yuuri suggests he meet them down there, barely looking up from his phone as he texts Yakov back and heads for the door with a quick 'see you down there' as he leaves.

There are droplets of water falling from Victor's hair; they trail a cold path over his shoulder and down his chest as he shakily curls over his knees, careless of the sheets against his still wet legs. 

His hands are shaking, not just his fingers now. 

Yuuri had been so insistent on his being here, on Victor being with him for Worlds and some tiny part of Victor had been hoping it was an olive branch. They've been so discordant recently that Victor had stupidly hoped that Yuuri had noticed. That maybe Yuuri had seen the disparate nature of their lives these days and wanted to rectify it with time together. Yes, it was during a competition, but Victor had somehow convinced himself that their schedules were so packed that Yuuri had recognised the need and found some way –  _ any way _ – to find time together before they arrived in Hasetsu to visit the onsen and his family. 

Victor had been a fool. An unmitigated and outright fool. Of course he was only here to fill a role, of course he was only here to complete his part in the show. Yuuri only needed him here as part of the performance, because that's all that mattered in the end, keeping up appearances and keeping the press happy. 

The thought of reporter Morooka cornering them sometime in the morning flits into his brain like a tiny piece of lint, floating past on the draft and out again. There are thousands of fans waiting for Yuuri to take the ice, thousands of people eagerly awaiting the thrill of the World Championships. There's no one waiting for Victor though, no one wanting to see him, not even Yuuri. Yuuri needs him as the placeholder to something, a symbol of normality and balance in the world. Victor needs Yuuri as an anchor to keep him from drifting away. Victor is unaccountably numbed by the thought that he's the only one in their relationship who's truly fulfilling his role, and only for the sake of saving Yuuri the embarrassment of abandonment.

Victor makes it to the lobby in time for Yakov to give him a stern look and a few practiced words on time-wasting he'd heard a hundred times in his youth. Victor replies with a flashing smile that feels like a threat on his lips and ushers them out of the hotel.

* * *

Victor is more exhausted than he has any right to be by the time Yuuri is taking to the podium to claim his third Worlds Gold. 

He's been cornered by at least six different coaches looking for choreography for the next season and passed them business cards. He'd waited at the boards as Yuuri skated his Free and clapped and smiled along like any worthy husband would. He's held Yuuri's hand as the final rankings were announced and hugged him tightly.

After all of that, when Victor watches Yuuri's face as he is gilded once more, he feels... nothing. He feels empty and drained and so disconnected from his own husband that he almost forgets to smile when Yuuri's gaze finds his. It's quickly rectified, and Yuuri doesn't notice the slip, he smiles and smiles, waving up at the stands and accepting the accolades as Victor feels himself fading further.

There's something inevitable about the way the chasm of his heart opens up in that moment, the way he realises that he's finally hit his limit on trying to fit into Yuuri's world. It had been his too, once, but now he was so divorced from the reality of the life he'd left behind that he can see the distance like a crevasse – a yawning void that had cannibalised his affection. 

The awareness that he has drifted so far from Yuuri, that all of his love has fallen into the void between them is one which has him working on autopilot as he's ushered to changing rooms by Yakov and handed his Stammi Vicino costume. It's almost paralysing the knowledge that he's totally emotionally removed from his husband. After everything they had been through together, after fighting so hard to win Yuuri's love, after all of the missteps and confusion.

They're apart now. 

Yuuri passes him several times between photo ops and being cornered by reporters, but Victor barely notices, he doesn't see much between the water bottle clutched in his fingers and the skates Yakov shoves into his hands as he tightens the laces. It seems only a moment later that the exhibition starts. Skaters swarm Yuuri in waves of congratulations and hugs; it keeps Yuuri from his side for the most part. He gets drawn into a conversation about the potential of some Junior skaters who had finished their competitions the week before with a couple of coaches and manages to maintain enough equilibrium to nod and agree in all of the right places.

Skaters cycle in and out of the area, a revolving door of world class athletes all finally leading up to Yuuri taking the centre ice with Victor waiting at the boards. The moment Yuuri takes to the ice in his costume the crowd roars with approval; they know what’s coming and Victor can feel the anticipation in the air as the first notes ring out.

Yuuri is beautiful, as always. Elegant and enrapturing in a way that harkens back to the skater Victor had watched on his phone screen with Makka curled over his legs. The emotionality as he moves, the way he captures the impassioned plea of Stammi – it's all still there out on the ice. All of the heartache and longing that Victor had spent hours honing into an outcry of want and need. Yuuri captures it perfectly. 

It would be darkly ironic if not for the fact that Victor can't summon any kind of reaction. 

He feels like a puppet with its strings cut, dangling uselessly at the side of the rink and hoping he can make it through the motions of the skate. Watching the man who had captured his heart like an invading army play out the catalyst that had reached across continents to bring them together. Victor should be brimming over, he should be aching to join Yuuri on the ice and to show the whole of Japan the way they had laid claim to one another.

Victor is so preoccupied that he almost misses his cue. 

Almost. 

Yuuri holds his hand out, beckoning and calling Victor to him and greeting him with soft touches that ring of romantic love as they come together on the ice – and it hurts. It hurts all over again because Victor knows it’s a performance, he knows that it's all for show. The days of them being gentle and kind with one another are gone; they've been left behind and abandoned along with fondness and love. They've been buried in the void that has taken everything from their relationship.

Yuuri braces for the first lift, his back to Victor’s chest, close in a way they rarely are and Victor feels that biting stinging in his throat again as Yuuri turns upon landing and looks at him. The expression is a cheap facsimile of the real thing. They're performing their love. Victor returns the smile, playing into Stammi Vicino and lets Yuuri take the lead. 

It's all he can do. It's the best he has right now when it feels like his heart is being torn open on the ice. 

Victor's fingers are shaking against Yuuri's chest when they enter the final pose, frozen in the centre of the rink with Yuuri gazing up at him. 

It's like the final nail in the coffin. The straw that broke the camel's back. The performance of Yuuri's heart on his sleeve is enough to break the last shred of Victor's control and his knees shake as Yuuri lets him back down and pulls him around to thank the crowd.

* * *

Victor isn't sure how he comes to the resolution that he needs to say something, but by the time he's clutching a glass of lukewarm Cava and pasting on his smile for sponsors, he's come to a decision. 

He can't do it anymore. He can't smile and laugh and pretend to be happy when it feels like everything that Yuuri had brought out in him has been decimated by distance and dismissal. There's a tiny part of him that cries out, that yearns for the feeling of loving and being loved so completely, as they had in their early days – but Victor doesn't know how to bring that back. He doesn't know if Yuuri would even want to. Why would Yuuri even want a husband who's heart had become a desolate hole in his chest?

Maybe it would be for the best if Yuuri moved on without him and found a better love. Yuuri deserves so much love that Victor had been stupid to try to fill it all by himself.

Yuuri's laugh carries across the muted talk of the banquet hall, he's smiling and laughing with Phichit and Celestino, looking for all the world as if there's no place he'd rather be. Victor's shaking fingers drop his glass onto the nearest table and he walks away.

It's easier than he'd imagined it would be, to take the first step. No one in the banquet hall spares him a glance as he exits, heading towards the elevators and to their room with his head bowed and his fists stuffed in his jacket pockets. He probably looks a mess, hair in disarray and suit wrinkling at the abuse, but he doesn't care. He hurries along the corridor and waits for the lift impatiently.

Victor knows that he has a reputation for impulsive behaviour, that people think he's airheaded and prone to flakiness. He's not. He's just never been in the habit of discussing the decisions he makes with third parties. 

This decision, however, needs discussing. 

He spends the time in the elevator considering his argument. He walks to their hotel room with his facts laid out in neat little bullet points for Yuuri's consideration. He considers Yuuri's potential rebuttals as he packs his cases, folding his shirts just the way Yakov had taught him when they first started travelling for competitions. He doesn't look at the Stammi costume hanging on the back of the hotel room door; it's too close to the reality of leaving, of knowing that they'll never skate together again.

If he's completely honest, Victor doesn't see it being much of a conversation. It's more likely that Yuuri will just nod along with him, as he so often does, and let him go. There's not much to talk about, not much to discuss. Only the bare bones of their relationship. They'll have to discuss the logistics of splitting the apartment, he supposes, maybe discuss how they'll interact in public and when they cross paths through work. They're small things in the long run, but he supposes they'll have to be worked out for the sake of both of their careers.

He's in the bathroom, organising his toiletries bag and wondering if it's worth passing a conbini to grab some shower gel when Yuuri returns to the hotel room and fractures the meditative state that Victor had fallen into.

"Victor? I didn't see you leave the ban–" Victor can hear the moment Yuuri sees his case, open and neatly packed on the bed. He can almost imagine the look on Yuuri's face, blank surprise, possibly a little annoyance at the timing. "What is this...?"

It takes a second, a deep steadying breath for Victor to look up in the mirror and see Yuuri hovering in the doorway to find Yuuri looking back at him with his face pinched.

"I think we should talk." The words are like stones, the weight of them falling from Victors lips and settling between them.

"Talk." Yuuri parrots blankly. "Talk about what?"

"Us."

"What about us?" Yuuri frowns, he steps into the bathroom and tries to catch Victor's eye. "I'm unsure what you could have to say about us that would explain the packed suitcase in the bedroom. So enlighten me Vitya."

"I... I think I need some time away. Some space to think."

"Think about what."

"About..." Victor feels tears pricking at his eyes. He'd thought he was done breaking his own heart over Yuuri, but it hurts so so much to even begin talking about it. "About whether we should still be married. Whether we should be together."

"What–" 

"About if all of the energy and all of the time I've invested in our relationship is worth the hurt I feel." 

"I–"

"About the fact that we barely see each other, we barely speak to each other – we don't even fuck anymore." Victor can feel the rage spilling over out of his lips and poisoning the air in a venomous spiel. It's like the dam has broken and all of the frustration and anger is pouring out of him. "You don't have space for me in your life anymore, Yuuri, you don't make space. There's no time in our relationship for us as a pair and it's been wearing me down for months. Months and months and months of just living in circles around each other and barely speaking, of being stuck on opposite sides of the world and barely getting a phone call to show for it. There's nothing left here, as far as I can see, but the lingering affection of someone who used to love me – who used to want me in their life, and now I spend most of my time alone and barely get a greeting when you finally peel yourself away from practice."

"Victor, I–"

"And I know. I know it's me being selfish, wanting to keep you all for myself and I shouldn’t, but I barely feel like I’m even a consideration in your life ninety percent of the time. There’s nothing between us that makes me feel loved or valued anymore and I just...” The head of steam Victor had built up is just about burned out, his bullet points list failing at the way Yuuri is watching him with affront painted across his features. “I just don’t know why we’re still doing this. Us.”

“Why we’re doing _ this _ .” Yuuri looks suddenly furious. “ _ This _ is our  _ marriage _ , Victor.”

“I’m aware.”

Victor had always thought of anger as a warm emotion, building up and exploding out, but the chill that settles in his heart at the way Yuuri looks at him is  _ freezing _ . It cracks and shatters the edges of his lips as Yuuri turns away from him. “And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“You say you’re unhappy, but this is the first I’ve heard of it. I don’t even get a chance to try and change things; you’re just going to what? Leave? We can’t even talk about it.” Yuuri’s jaw works for a moment, as though he’s chewing over his words before he spits them out. “And it’s not as if you’re perfect, Victor. You know how hard training is. You know how exhausting it is, and then you throw this at me. I’d come home after getting my butt kicked all over the ice by Yakov and yelled at by Lilia because my flexibility is going and you’d be sat there, refusing to talk to me or just outright ignoring me. You think it’s easy to try and approach you when you’re upset?”

“Well I–” 

“You think I like being on the other side of the world from you? You think that finding out Makka died while I was out in Canada was fun for me? You think I just swan away and have an amazing wonderful time?” Yuuri’s barely taken a breath, his face is reddening with anger and Victor can’t look at him anymore. He  _ can’t _ . “Try coming back from competitions where you’re beating back anxiety and being scared to put a foot wrong in your own home because your husband refuses to even talk to you when he’s upset.”

“I never said I wasn’t upset–” Victor starts, but Yuuri huffs disbelievingly.

“No, no of course not. Because you’re fine, Victor. Always always _ fine _ .”

“Of course, how stupid of me. Of course it’s all my fault.” Victor lays the sarcasm on thick, finally looking away from the empty shower gel bottle in his clutches and letting all of his spiteful frustration pile back onto his words. “I’m so so sorry I’ve made everything so difficult for you Yuuri; I’m sure it’ll all be a lot easier for you once I’m out of your hair, yes?”

Victor grabs the half-packed toiletries bag and shoulders past Yuuri and into the bedroom, throwing the thing into his case and slamming it shut. Yuuri follows him and Victor makes it almost as far as zipping it when Yuuri stops him with a protest. “No, Victor that’s not– I– shit just wait!”

It’s the cursing that stops him. Yuuri doesn’t curse unless he’s genuinely upset or they’re fucking. Victor straightens up, watching Yuuri as he approaches with his hands splayed in application. "That's not what I meant Victor, that's...  _ This  _ isn't what I want. Please just... sit down? Let's talk about this."

Victor doesn't have enough fight left in him to argue, really, so he takes a seat on the edge of the bed. "Okay then. Talk."

Victor's muted compliance seems to throw Yuuri; he fumbles for a minute before he finds a seat at the end of the bed, close enough that they could touch yet removed enough to talk.

"I don't want this, Victor. I don't want you to go." Yuuri stares into his own lap and takes a deep breath before catching Victor's eye. "I love you."

"I love you too, Yuuri."

"Then what–"

"But it's not enough. It's not enough and I feel completely adrift from you."

"Then–"

"And if I can love you and not be with you, then why suffer all of the pain?" Victor is so detached from it now that it sounds almost like he's musing over the concept. He's expended so much emotion on it already that there seems to be little left, even for this conversation. "It doesn't make sense. If I'm unhappy, and I know you're not happy then... why keep hurting each other?"

Yuuri looks aghast at this, his fingers curling over his knees as he says, "Because we love each other Vitya."

"Is that enough? Love?" Victor feels tears threatening again, his throat tight with them. "It hasn't been for a long time Yuuri and I don't know..."

_ How to fix it... _

_ If it's worth it... _

_ If we can fix it... _

"Then we work on it. We fight for it." Yuuri's face blazes with the same determined energy that he'd had when he'd challenged Victor to teach him all of his jumps, the same determination he'd had going into their first Grand Prix Final. "Victor–  _ Vitya, _ I love you. I love you with everything I have and I'm going to prove it to you. I'm going to show you. Don't–" Yuuri falters, he reaches out to Victor and places a hesitant hand on his knee, shuffling closer until he's curled into Victor's lap on the cheap hotel carpet. "Don't leave. Please, please just... don't leave me."

Yuuri's shoulders shake. His breaths come out in sobs. His fingers grip at the fabric of Victor's Armani trousers. Victor takes a deep breath, his fingers finding the dark strands of Yuuri's hair. Yuuri only cries harder.

"I don't..." His throat constricts again, his fingers shake against Yuuri's hair. This is hard. So, so much harder than he'd thought it would be. "I don't know if I  _ can _ . I don't know..."

"Vitya..." Yuuri looks up, face lined with tears and fraught with the kind of pain Victor recognises, the kind of pain that led them to this point. "Just don't leave. Not like this, not tonight. Just... sleep on it, take tonight and we can talk tomorrow on the train. We can fix it."

Yuuri looks so young in that moment, he looks so like the man Victor had seen walking away from him in a crowded event hallway in Sochi that Victor's heart breaks anew. It breaks and it breaks and it breaks. It breaks for the man he once was, for the love that he'd had and lost, for the hurt they have brought one another. It breaks for the man he loved – loves – whose heart had been his only long enough to hurt once more. Victor sees himself in that pain, he sees the hurt and the loss and the gut-wrenching ache of longing and wishing. He sees all of it and it hurts, it hurts and he wants it to stop. He wants it to go away to whatever corner of their lives it had spread from and never ever come back.

"We– we can sleep. We can talk in the morning."

"On the way home." Yuuri looks uncertain, he looks torn and scared and worried.

"Yes, on the way home."

* * *

To say the next morning is awkward is an understatement.

Victor wakes to find the bed empty of Yuuri, the noise of the shower running informing him of Yuuri's whereabouts. It's a relief, a tiny respite where Victor can try to organise his thoughts and pull himself together to face his husband. But he doesn't. Instead he spends five minutes staring at the ceiling and wondering just what the hell they're going to do. He'd agreed to go back to Hasetsu with Yuuri last night in a panic-induced oversight and now he's wondering just what on earth he'd been thinking. He hadn't been really; he'd been completely overloaded and scared by just how hurt Yuuri was. He hadn't prepared for the chance that Yuuri would even care, let alone argue him down from leaving.

The shower shuts off and Victor tries to pull himself into some semblance of alertness as the door opens and Yuuri comes out in a billow of steam with a towel wrapped around his hips. 

He's so beautiful it hurts. It hurts so much. Victor doesn't know where to look anymore, and he's never ever had that problem with Yuuri.

_ Don't take your eyes off me, Victor. _

Yuuri catches sight of him, glasses balanced sloppily on the end of his nose as he so often does when he's dressing. A curse of bad eyesight that Victor had teased him relentlessly for when they'd been falling in love slowly in Hasetsu and drying off after a soak in the onsen. "Good morning." 

It's so stiff that even Yuuri winces, nose crinkling as he turns to the wardrobe and pulls out a pair of jeans. Victor can almost feel Yuuri ignoring the very empty side that had been his until he'd packed his case. 

The discomfort hangs between them, heavy and unacknowledged.

Victor clears his throat and it's almost like a shout for the way Yuuri flinches.

"Yuuri, do you think it's a good idea?"

"Think what's a good idea?"

"Hasetsu. Do you think it's a good idea for us to... for me to be there?"

"I don't know what you mean." Yuuri's being deliberately obtuse, Victor knows from the flat way his voice clips at the end of the words and the jerky motions as he pulls on his shirt. "It would be stranger if you weren't there, being that you're my husband."

"No I know, I just thought that–"

"Thought that it'd be easier to just walk away? I know Victor, I got  _ that _ message loud and clear last night." Yuuri starts pulling shirts and pants out of the wardrobe, piling them on the floor and Victor feels the statement like a blow.

"This is what I'm talking about– You think no one is going to notice that we're barely together anymore?" Victor bites back, waspish and hurt. "You think we're going to be able to keep this from everyone? From Yuuko and Mari? From your parents? It's not going to be that easy and you know it!"

"I don't expect it to be easy Victor, nor do I expect us to try and hide it." Yuuri grabs armfuls of his clothing, manhandling his case onto the floor and struggling around the bundle of cloth to unzip the unruly suitcase. It takes him a minute and Victor is frozen watching just how frustrated Yuuri gets with the inanimate object. He slams the case closed on the lump of clothes, straightening up jerkily and heading to the bathroom to roughly grab his toiletries.

And Victor just watches him go passively.

The packing takes ten minutes, Yuuri's anger simmering down from slamming cupboards and cases, to something muted and insular. Victor orders them breakfast. It's more of a diversion tactic than actually caring – if he's busy ordering then he can't talk to Yuuri, he can't pay attention to Yuuri - and by the time Yuuri is fully packed the food arrives.

They don't talk during the meal. They pick sparsely at the plates and avoid making eye contact. The silence is throttling, clawing at Victor's last frayed nerve as he spoons lychee around his plate and tries not to think about just how badly this has all gone, how much worse he's made everything. If he hadn't said anything they could have just ignored it, continued on as they had done for the last years, just grown apart until Yuuri had finally sickened of the situation and left him.

It wouldn't have been better that way or this, really. Either way they're both miserable and sullen, angry and hurt.

"What time is the taxi due?"

It's a perfectly innocuous question, a totally rational question, but Victor snaps an answer because he's still nowhere near okay and his head and his heart hurt equally. "I've told you a hundred times it's due at midday."

"Oh, I'm sorry to be such a bother to you Victor, apparently my distraction has made me forgetful." It's a seething black retort and Victor recoils at it.

"I'm sorry our unhappiness is a distraction to you then." Victor throws his napkin onto his plate and steps away from the table, not giving Yuuri the chance to retaliate, storming back towards the bedroom and finally finishing up his packing from the night before. He hides in the room until half past eleven, checking and rechecking his bag and carry on, double checking his phone for their tickets, and collecting chargers and keycards for the suite.

Yuuri meets him at the door and takes his own bags silently.

They hurry through check out, thanking the staff and taxi driver once they're at the train station but never passing a word between them. It's only once they're at the platform, clutching their bags and standing only a little further apart that they once would have that Yuuri breaks his silence.

"We can't fix it if we're not together Victor, we can't do anything if we're apart... and no matter how angry I am, and how hurt you are right now, I know we can fix this." Yuuri finally looks at him, his eyes shining in earnest imploring. "That's why you should come home, that's why it doesn't matter if anyone knows we're unhappy. Because we can fix this if we work together."

Yuuri's words are like a balm to Victor's frayed nerves, like everything he wished he'd heard for the last few years, and Victor wonders vaguely if it isn't too good to be true.

* * *

The ride to Hasetsu is made up of incredibly polite half statements. They seem to have fallen back upon incredibly mannered conversation over actually having to speak about anything; they excuse themselves for the bathroom and please and thank each other for any and all tiny things, and Victor wishes he could punch himself in the face rather than face the discomfort of these conversations, or maybe punch Yuuri. Hell, if it would break the faux silence hanging between then he'd punch them both.

By the time they make it to the onsen and are greeted loudly by Toshiya and Hiroko, Victor is emotionally and physically exhausted, the strain of enforced politeness pulling him to the edge of his patience. Hiroko hustles over to them happily, Toshiya following with a wide smile.

"Welcome home Vicchan." She smiles up to him softly.

It's almost too much. Hiroko is and has always been the kindest person Victor has ever met, never without an encouragement or sweet word on her lips. Yet Victor doesn't deserve her kindness. He's broken everything, shattered his and Yuuri's relationship – their marriage – into ragged shards with a few choice and venomous words. Victor can barely contain the wobble in his voice, fighting free of the tightness in his throat when he greets her.

He must manage somehow, and Hiroko doesn't notice it at any rate; she just jumps into an explanation that the Toshinoris are on their way over and Minako will be joining them once she's finished her accounts, so hadn't they better hurry and freshen up before everyone arrives?

They're hurried into the onsen, Toshiya grabbing their cases and Hiroko telling them all about how the season is looking, chatting away as they stow their cases in the former banquet room,  _ their _ room now, as Hiroko had insisted after their marriage and then led back downstairs to find the triplets and Yuuko slipping their shoes off.

"Yuuri!" Yuuko launches herself at Yuuri, excitedly exclaiming over his Worlds performance and smiling brightly. Axel is beside her mother, asking Yuuri about the jump that had landed him a +5 GOE and trying to elbow her way into a picture. Lutz and Loop on the other hand have managed to corner Victor and start asking him about the rumours that he might be assisting Minami in creating his short for the next season.

Somehow, between the chaos of the triplets and Yuuko's scolding about manners and not harassing family friends no matter how famous they are, they manage to make it to the family dining room. It's a jumbled mess of limbs and shouting once they're settled around the table, Victor managing to enquire about Takeshi between accepting a cup of green tea from Toshiya and getting an elbow to the knee when Loop attempts to scramble over the table to sit beside Yuuri.

It's a welcome distraction from the discomfort that has settled between himself and Yuuri, at least, listening to the Triplets vying for position to fill them in on the last nine months of their lives. They're nine now and not any less intimidating than they had been upon first introduction, still obsessed skating otaku and energetic in their invasive questioning. Yuuri laughs at Loop, almost upending her tea, when he's talking to Yuuko about Yurio's growing problem with one of Yakov's new recruits not concentrating on their own training in favour of watching him stretch, a titbit Victor hadn't been party to back in St Petersburg that makes him frown in response.

But Yuuri is smiling, smiling and laughing and even shouting with happiness when Takeshi arrives, bowling into the room and aiming straight for Yuuri to pull him into a rough hug. The noise of which brings Mari into the room with a quelling frown and a few snide words about decorum.

"It's not my fault Takeshi is a touchy person!"

"It's not my fault that Yuuri is so touchable!"

"Well both of you are grown married men who should know better!" Mari scowls at them, cracking a rueful smile when Takeshi only snuggles Yuuri tighter and starts talking about 'A love that cannot possibly be defined!'.

Victor has seen this, the way Yuuri and Takeshi navigate the waters of their friendship, once a contentious affair fraught with jockeying for Yuuko's attention, now reduced to jocular ribbing and silliness that was hard won through their teens. Victor watches, sees the way Yuuri sinks into the familiarity, and he feels the stab of jealousy deep in his ego.

He and Yuuri used to roughhouse, they used to touch and hug and laugh together. Now they barely have the energy to talk without barbs and slights.

"Well once you're both done nullifying your marriage licenses, Otousan needs a hand bringing the food in you pair of louts." Mari stands about Yuuri and Takeshi with her unlit cigarette dangling from one lip and her arms folded in mock annoyance. It all speaks volumes of a dynamic that's been well-established and rooted in mutual knowledge of one another, especially when the pair of men bow their heads resignedly and get to their feet, following in Mari's wake as they go to assist Toshiya.

"Honestly, our husbands are ridiculous sometimes!" Yuuko smiles brightly, a laugh on her lips as she watches the cowed pair being followed and relentlessly mocked by the triplets, who're all doing their best Mari impressions with identical scowls. Victor offers her what he hopes is a smile, covering his jealousy by drinking his tea and nodding along with Yuuko as she discusses the options for Onsen on Ice this summer. It's a conversation they've had every year for the last four years, one which Victor doesn't really need to have any input into since Yuuko is now an old hand at hosting the event and rallying the skaters into some kind of order. He's only paying the smallest amount of attention to the conversation at best; he's distracted by Yuuri and Takeshi laughing their way back into the room laden with trays and trying not to trip over the triplets.

Yuuri looks so comfortable, so happy in his own home and his own skin, almost as happy as he is on the ice. It's something Victor had forgotten, that Hasetsu is Yuuri's home. No matter how well lived in the tiny apartment in St Petersburg is, it's here at the onsen that Yuuri is at his best.

Perhaps that's part of why they'd drifted so far, the cause of the rift between them.

Perhaps Victor's ugly apartment is to blame...

It's a stupid and vapid thought really, that their location could possibly be to blame for them falling apart. Of course it's not some stupid interior designer nightmare apartment that's caused them to drift; it's  _ them _ . Or  _ him. _ It's just Victor and his destructive tendency to break the things he loves. That's all.

"I was thinking of switching the running order up this year; didn't you and Christophe skate the same theme once back in Chris' first year of seniors?" Yuuko has a notepad and pen out, her eyes darting between the paper and Victor and waiting for his answer to a question he'd barely heard because he'd been too buried in his thoughts of Yuuri and their marriage to pay strict attention. She's on the cusp of prompting him again when Yuuri and Hiroko re-enter the room, Yuuri with another tray of food and Hiroko leading Minako into the room with bottles of Sake and glasses.

"Victor! You look like a man who needs a drink!"

And never in his life has he been so happy for Minako's penchant for a good bottle of sake and deep discussion of ISU politics; she commandeers him to a separate table and starts breaking down the scoring for the Grand Prix for the season, which Victor is more than happy to dive into. Minako is effusive and funny and they spend the best part of an hour roasting the ISU and getting steadily more generous with their 'scoring' as they watch replays of each program on Victor's phone, crowing with annoyance at the scores and bitching about the system. Hiroko manages to drag them back to the main table, where Minako starts tearing Yuuri's free skate to shreds, much to Yuuri's shock, and Victor and Takeshi polish off the rest of the first sake bottle.

The evening passes in a shuffle of people, all radiating around the family room and mingling, Hiroko and Toshiya switching places to deal with the paying customers. It's a good night, a  _ really _ good night. In the end Victor is happily tipsy with Takeshi leaning hard against him and snoozing in his sake-induced slumber, Yuuri is arguing good-naturedly with Mari about the logistics of getting him home, Yuuko having taken the triplets to bed hours ago (with much displeasure from her offspring at their leaving). They settle on leaving the poor guy to sleep it off on the couch, a blanket thrown haphazardly over him by Mari. Victor is concentrating so hard on getting back to their room that he doesn't notice Yuuri hanging back until he's already through the bedroom door.

"Yuuri? What are you doing?" Yuuri hesitates in the doorway when Victor turns to him with a frown.

"I was just... thinking?"

"About?"

"Whether it's a good idea for me to come in. I mean, you're not exactly in a good place, and I'm... out of it? I think. So maybe I should sleep in my old bedroom?"

It's the silence that gets to him, really. The way Yuuri is so nervous to even broach the subject of them sharing the room. He's picking at the edge of his t-shirt and not meeting Victor's eyes, biting his lips and worrying the skin.

Yuuri should never be this uncomfortable, should never be this out of sorts in their relationship, and Victor feels it in the depths of his chest, the weight of guilt settling and sinking into his stomach like molten lead, churning and nipping at his insides as he watches Yuuri.

"I–"

Victor doesn't even know how to approach it, this dichotomy between them, the dissonance that's running through their relationship. Four years ago, in this same room, Victor had laid on the folded out futon, snuggled up to Makka with tears spilling onto his cheeks at the rejection he'd felt at Yuuri's dismissal. The way Yuuri had closed him out so thoroughly with the slam of his bedroom door and the yell of anguish when Victor had suggested they bunk together. It had been the hardest rejection he'd had in so so many years; it had stung and bit at him, the fact that this man he'd fallen so quickly for had pushed him away and held him at arm’s length.

The thought of this happening again, of being in this room alone, without even Makka to comfort him tears in a visceral way that has him crowding to the door and gripping Yuuri's bicep. He barely notices that it's the first time they've touched all day, he barely notices the way Yuuri clasps him back.

"No. No that's... unnecessary." Yuuri's fingers are on his arm, tightening reflexively at the contact.

"I just don't... I don't want to crowd you, if you need space or whatever." And he looks so lost, so unsure and at sea in that moment that the molten lead in Victor's stomach churns anew.

"No. You said you wanted to fix this... that we  _ could  _ fix this. That starts with us being together, right?"

It probably has something to do with the sake they've drunk, or the welcoming party, all of the positive and happy things they've been given today, but in that moment Victor truly believes that they  _ can _ fix it.

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Victor dreams often. Usually his dreams are of nonsense, inconsequential flittings in the corners of his mind that rarely stick long enough after regaining consciousness to be of any interest. 

Tonight is different.

Tonight he dreams of Yuuri. Of he and Yuuri twined together in sheets that fall away from bare skin to be nipped at by the cool air of their apartment in St Petersberg. They move together, bodies pressed hard and flushed to one another in a way that feels so real that Victor can feel the brush of lips over his collarbone.

It feels true, real, honest. The way the cool of the air contrasts the heat of Yuuri’s kisses, the way their chests glance against one another, the feel of Yuuri’s hair through his fingers as they pull him in for another searing kiss. 

It feels like everything he’s been missing for so long.

The realisation is enough to have his heart hurtle through his chest and straight to his feet in a pull that drags him straight back into the real world with a sobering reality that is punctuated by the cold side of the mattress where Yuuri should have been.

The angle of the light tells him that it’s early - too early for Yuuri’s usually slovenly off-season ways to be upheld - and yet the bed is empty but for himself and the warm summer air that has the bedsheets rumpled in a way that could speak of the sex he’d just dreamed of. It’s the third day since they've arrived in Hasetsu, and the third time Victor has woken alone. 

The dream lingers. It sticks to his chest and his neck, it insinuates itself under his tongue and has him clenching his teeth against the raw feeling of loss.

They’d had that, once. That desire and that need, that heat that could consume over the course of a night and not burn out until the early morning rolled in and they lay together with fingers trailing and voices hushed as they whispered into the dawn light. Yet Victor knows that all that heat can’t burn alone, that fires need fuel and he and Yuuri have little enough left between them; whatever embers had possibly been left had been thoroughly doused by the torrent of hate he’d pored over them in the hotel room in Sapporo. 

He doesn’t want to get out of bed. He doesn’t want to face his husband. He doesn’t want to play happy families with Mari or have to smile as Toshiya talks football at him. If he’s completely honest, Victor only wants to hide himself away in their empty room and languish in his own misery. He and Yuuri have been avoiding each other assiduously since they'd arrived, skirting around each other in hallways and sitting silently beside one another through meals. It has Victor tense in ways he hasn't been since their fateful first summer together, a tension that was once bred from attraction now curling towards the downright unbearable. Staying in bed seems the best plan all around, Victor feels. 

A plan which is thwarted by Yuuri, who slides the door open ten minutes later with his yukata fastened perfectly and his inky hair falling freshly washed and heavy into his eyes. He starts at the sight of Victor curled in the sheets. The moment hangs like a over-ripe fruit, growing from Victor’s last nerves pulling at the fraying edges. 

Victor cracks first, of course he does. He blinks at the way that Yuuri frowns to himself and stalks across the room to the dresser and begins jerkily pulling out clothes for the day. He doesn't deign to acknowledge Victor as he dresses with his shoulders tense and his body turned away.

_Well that's unnecessary_. 

Once Yuuri is dressed he heads straight for the door, sweeping away without a backwards look. The entire process has Victor's hackles rising along his temper. 

"Where are you going?" Victor's voice is grating, rough and sharp enough to freeze Yuuri in the doorway. 

"Oh, so you're speaking to me now?"

"I never wasn't." He sounds like a sulky teenager and Yuuri's eyes roll in response.

"So, what, the last two days have all been my imagination?" Yuuri snorts derisively. 

"And I'm the only one to blame, of course." There's acid on his tongue, dripping venom as he stands and he feels his fists clenching.

"Of course." Yuuri shrugs. It's so dismissive, so easy that Victor is on his feet and heading for the dresser in a righteous fury as he pulls on pants and a shirt. He can practically hear Yuuri's frown deepen behind him. "What are you doing?" he asks flatly.

“Coming with you.”

“Coming with me.”

“Yes.”

“You don't even know where I'm going.”

“So? Where you go I go, darling.” The insincerity drips and he can see the way Yuuri draws in on himself at the blow. 

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

It's petty and childish and they're refusing to look at one another as they head through the onsen and out into the town. Victor isn't going to allow Yuuri the pleasure of asking, again, where they're going, and he stubbornly keeps pace. When Yuuri leads them to the combini Victor doesn't pay much attention to anything beyond the shelves, allowing his mind to wander as Yuuri grabs a basket and wanders ahead of him.

Victor's temper is simmering away under his skin; he feels on edge and angry at Yuuri's accusation that he'd been avoiding him. Victor hadn't been avoiding, per se; he'd been attempting to keep some form of peace for the sake of Yuuri's family and the pretense they're living under. For Yuuri, for Yuuri who had begged him on his knees with tears gathering in his eyes and pretty words about fixing things. 

That Yuuri isn't here – the Yuuri he's following around the store has the attitude of a pissed off rattlesnake.

Victor lingers around the toiletries, vaguely thinking about the fact he still hadn't replaced his shower gel. Hiroko had provided him with a small bottle of the inns vast supplies, but Victor picks out a bottle and glances over the back of it. When he finally settles for a brand he'd used once or twice, he looks up and finds the aisle empty but for himself and no sign of Yuuri.

For all of his pretty promises, Yuuri seems perfectly happy to abandon him. The thought stings and Victor's temper dials up another notch as he storms through the combini, catching sight of Yuuri who's signing a notebook, juggling the half-filled basket over his arm to do so and smiling genially at the guy who had stopped him. 

It’s all so fake, so very put on. The way the guy is watching Yuuri with star-struck eyes and Yuuri is beaming and accepting the accolades with a plastered on smile that makes Victor’s skin crawl. It makes Victor want to scream. To yell and fight at the situation they’re in. 

He knows.

He _knows_ how false and fake that crinkly-eyed smile is because he’s seen it a million times in his mirror over and over again as he’d gotten dressed in the mornings. As he’d primped and preened and slid into suits readying himself for yet another function, another night of small talk and plastic people. 

It tears into Victor’s chest to see that smile on Yuuri’s face. It hurts and it rips and it rages against everything that’s swelling in Victor’s heart. 

He shouldn’t even be this upset. He shouldn’t be this hurt. He shouldn’t be this taken aback by the fact that Yuuri is faking his way through a conversation with a fan. He shouldn’t be in this fucking combini at all; he should be home in St Petersburg packing his bags and looking for a new apartment. He should be a million miles away and finding a new way to live after Yuuri finally realises that there’s nothing left for them together.

The fan bows to Yuuri, smiling happily and laughing at his own silliness at the bow itself. Yuuri, ever the sweetheart of his fans, only bows back with that plastic smile, and the fan jogs away to join a small group of friends who immediately set upon him chattering over one another and fawning over the notebook clutched in his hands. 

Yuuri’s face falls the moment the group round the corner of the aisle, exhaustion clear in the bags that have settled under his eyes. It’s like a confirmation of the hurt they’re both carrying, the way Yuuri crumbles the minute the scrutiny ends, the way the spotlight moves from him and he folds himself away and back into the pain they’re inflicting upon one another.

Why? Why are they still doing this, still pretending there’s something worth fighting _for_? They’re delaying the inevitable and pulling each other further into a place where neither of them can find an ounce of happiness. At least if Yuuri let Victor go, there would be the chance of happiness for them, the chance to move on and change and grow for the better. 

But in the sterile lighting of the combini aisle all Victor can see is the pain that passes between them, from barbed comment and hard look, from feigning and playing at being together. 

“Victor.” Yuuri has finally noticed him lurking at the end of the aisle and contemplating the chasm of hurt and anger that’s keeping them apart. Yuuri heads over to him with a frown. “What are you doing?” Yuuri’s tone is as snappish and annoyed as it had been back in their bedroom, waspish and cutting as though giving Yuuri space with a fan was somehow an affront. 

“Waiting for you to have time for your husband once the adoring masses are done with you as usual.” It’s so easy to snap back. To hold onto the anger and hurt that’s been steam-rollering through him that the retort comes before Victor even realises that he’s said it out loud.

“Or you could have _joined_ us, you know, being that you’re also an internationally renowned figure skater.” Yuuri doesn’t even snap, he just rolls his eyes as though Victor is just _too ridiculous_ to deal with right now. But the sting still hurts when Victor replies.

“Was.” 

“What?” Yuuri isn’t even looking at him, he’s browsing the shelves and frowning at the mirin for some ungodly reason.

“Was. I was an international figure skater.” Something in Victor’s tone finally pulls Yuuri away from the depths of his vinegar contemplation and his frown deepens when he sees Victor’s face.

“What are you talking about?” 

“I was an international figure skater. I’m not anymore.” 

“No but–”

“It might not matter to you, Yuuri, but it matters to me that my career was tanked–” Yuuri’s eyeroll is so hard Victor’s surprised he doesn’t fall over with the momentum.

“By an injury that we all saw fucking coming a million miles away–”

“What the f–”

“Victor we _warned_ you– me, Yakov, Yurio – we all told you to stop training so hard!”

“Oh, so now it’s _my_ fault!”

“Well yes, actually, if we’re finally talking about this.” Victor isn’t aware he’s stepped closer to Yuuri; he’s barely aware of his voice rising and his finger gripping the basket, but Yuuri isn’t backing down. He squares his shoulders and looks right into Victor’s face as he delivers the final blow. “You were reckless and unreasonable and nothing me or anyone said would get you to slow down and give yourself a break. So yes, you did that, and you did it to yourself and now you’re angry and isolated all of the time and I have to navigate around this _elephant in the room_ because you just won’t _hear_ it.”

Victor recoils as though Yuuri slapped him, the shopping basket slipping from his grip. He takes two steps back and away from the anger and fury that’s being so suppressed under Yuuri’s restrained tone. The hurt must show, it must be plastered all over Victor’s face. It has to be because there’s a second where the words leave Yuuri’s lips and then Yuuri is reaching out and protesting. “No, no Victor, I’m sorry I–” 

But it’s too late, it's too late, just like a few pleading words in a hotel in Tokyo are too little, and Victor feels his chest caving in all over again. 

He dodges the hand that reaches for him, turning quickly and keeping his head bowed through the empty aisles to the door. His mask had slipped and twisted to the point of breaking and now he’s wandering back to the onsen with his teeth gritted against the tears that won’t be held back anymore. 

It’s like the floodgates have finally broken against the tide of Yuuri’s vitriol and the end result is the shattering of Victor’s heart. Strange, he had thought it was broken already. And yet it hurts all the more for the way Yuuri had just looked at him with that blank expression as he’d destroyed what was left of Victor’s heart. He almost longs for the hotel and the days when he’d felt nothing for all of the pain they’ve inflicted upon each other today. 

The onsen is thankfully empty when Victor returns, the sound of a football game filtering through from Toshiya’s office, probably the cause of the empty welcome desk. Victor’s eternally grateful for it as he rushes through the main room and into the upper floors. His mask finally, finally breaks when he reaches their bedroom. It crumbles away and falls to his feet in a flood of tears then wrenched sobs from his chest in great gulping cries. He has to bury his face in the cushion of the couch to muffle them when gritting his teeth doesn’t stop the noises from flowing.

He’s so so aware that the Katsuki family are somewhere – they’re never not in residence even if they’re unseen – but he can’t stop the torrent of tears that are flowing from him. 

He knows, logically, that the injury was his fault. He knows, logically, that he had been waspish and difficult in recovery. But his heart and his head had told him to push harder, to go further, that he was the great Victor Nikiforov and he definitely had another season in him despite inching closer to thirty every day. 

And the worst thing he knows is that those actions had been the result of his wanting Yuuri. Wanting to be near him, to be with him every day. To be on the ice by his side where he belonged.

It hurts.

It hurts more than multiple surgeries and months of physio. More than the feeling of degradation at being seen on crutches, than the loss of face at having to learn to walk again. It hurts more than the news that he couldn’t be on the ice in any capacity, than the realisation that he’d never coach Yuuri hand on, that he’d lost the ice that had given him so much.

It hurts to know that Yuuri has been harbouring all of this anger, all of this contempt for so long. For all of that time Yuuri had been angry and Victor had only seen the ways his injury affected himself. 

He hadn’t seen Yuuri cracking at all.

Victor Nikiforov doesn’t cry, really. He’d spent his years before meeting Yuuri cultivating a persona that fitted the one Yakov had expected of him, and crybaby wasn’t a personality trait befitting a winner. Victor didn’t cry often and yet somehow he was unable to stem the flow as he poured all of the frustration and anger and hurt into the damp pillow below him. His chest hurt and his eyes stung and his face ached around his clenched teeth.

He doesn’t know how to stop. He doesn’t know what to do. He’s just being pulled down and down into this mess of tears and frustration and hurt and there’s no sign of it abating, of it ending, and he’s finding it hard to even catch his breath around each racking sob that’s being pulled from his chest.

It may have been ten minutes, or maybe thirty, but eventually Victor's tears slow in their descent and his fingers loosen their death grip on the poor abused pillow he’s been sobbing into. His chest still heaves and his eyes sting, but he’s a little calmer, more centred. It’s only then that he realises that his phone has been vibrating away in his pocket. Victor doesn’t bother looking at the screen, he just answers the infernal thing and grates out a shaky, “Yes?” against his raw throat.

“Victor…” His name is a purr on the line and it takes a moment in which the other person continues talking for Victor to realise who it is. “Darling, we’re overdue our end of season catch up; how are you?”

It’s so stupid to tear up over, its so silly to be upset by the question, but Victor’s face screws up again and he grips at the roots of his hair.

He’d forgotten.

He’d forgotten about Chris in his stupid self-centred pit of loathing. Not only is he a failure of a husband, he’s a terrible friend as well. They used to catch up in person, at the end of the season, spending a night gossiping and drinking into the late hours; then, when Victor had taken up his coaching of Yuuri and Chris had been on the edge of retirement, they’d caught up in snippets and cut short phone calls. By the time of Victor’s injury, Chris was being scouted for commentary and demanded that they instate an ‘official’ end of season catch up. At the time Victor had been so frazzled by the outcome of his surgeries that he’d just agreed to shut Chris up.

"Fuck-" "Fuck." The grip of Victor's fingers tightens around the roots of his hair and his breath catches noisily.

"Victor?" 

"Fuck. Fu-ck." He can't catch his breath. He can't – he can't – he can't – 

"Victor, darling, I don't know what's going on with you right now but you need to breathe for me, okay?" Chris sounds uncharacteristically serious over the long-distance line, but even the sobering sound of Christophe Giacometti taking life seriously isn’t enough to halt the meltdown already in progress. 

“I can’t–” 

“Victor. Vitya babe, I need you to take a deep breath for me and then blow it out, okay?” The words reach Victor but he can’t act on them; it’s like asking him to land a fucking quad flip for all the ability he has to tackle it right now. “Don’t tell me you don’t know how to blow hun, I’ve known you too long to believe that bullshit–”

A breath leaves Victor’s chest in a huff that almost sounds like a panicked laugh.

“Oh, so dick jokes are the key to breathing – well in that case I met a _very_ nice young gentleman in Toronto a few weeks ago and–”

“Oh my god no.” It’s more of a moan than a protest but there’s a laugh under there somewhere. Victor knows that just as he is useless with crying people – Chris is worse, and this is about the best he can do without being in physical proximity and dragging Victor into a hug.

“Oh my god yes, Vitya. Until you can compose a sentence without hyperventilating, I’m going to talk about the particularly nice dicking I got in–”

“No, oh god stop, I don’t want to hear it!”

“Good! Excellent! Then how about you tell me what the fuck is going on with you? Because this is… I don’t even know what this is. Vitya, darling, just talk to me okay?” There’s a soft edge to Chris’ voice, one which not many people in their profession even know exists, but Victor does. He and Chris had grown up together, in a way; years and years on the circuit had bred a closeness and care that they’d maintained with snappy comebacks and flirty banter. 

“I don’t want to.”

“Victor, you know what I’m like when I want to know something darling – I believe in your words I’m a relentless arse who needs to fuck off – isn’t it just easier if you tell me whats going on, for both of us?”

“Uuuuuggh.”

“That’s a boy! So, why the fuck are you crying on this dull grey Thursday?”

“It’s a long story,” Victor said tersely; he doesn’t even know where to start if he’s honest, he doesn’t know if he even wants to talk it through for fear of reliving this nightmarish few months.

“Great, I love a good novella,” Chris chirps. “Now stop lubing me up, I’m prepped already, get on with it.”

“Oh wow, that’s disgusting.” There’s an actual laugh at that.

“I know. I suggest you just tell me or I’ll keep getting worse, honestly.”

There’s nothing for it, really. “Okay.” Victor takes a deep breath, hoping for some semblance of the steady and sturdy equilibrium that Chris is throwing at him right now. “I don’t even know where to start? The injury maybe? The last nine months? It’s just been… hard. It’s been hard and lonely and Yuuri has been so fucking distant Chris. I barely fucking see him at all, and when I do it’s like we’re practically strangeres for all that we actually speak and spend any fucking time together.”

“Okay, so?”

“So we barely have a relationship anymore let alone a fucking marriage!! I’ve been holding on and on over the last god knows how long hoping he’d come back and be _here_ with me but it’s all been for fucking _nothing_.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning I tried to leave him Chris. I told him everything and told him how fucking sad and lonely I’ve become, and I tried to leave him but he wouldn’t fucking let me.” Victor can feel the panic rising, he knows that he’s practically shouting, he knows it’s all too fucked up to mention right now but he just lets it all pour out. “He _begged_ me to stay and now I’m here in his parents house – _crying of all things_ – because I don’t think there’s anything worth fucking saving anymore and Yuuri probably just hates me anyway.”

“What do you mean Yuuri hates you? Yuuri could never hate you, Vitya, you’re his entire fucking universe.”

“Well he just told me that it’s my own fucking fault I was injured and can’t skate so like, yeah I guess he hates me–”

“Victor!”

“Oh, and I guess that means I deserve the surgeries and months of physio just to get back on my feet, too, because I’m a selfish prick or something, which lets face it, Yuuri knew when he fucking married me, but Yuuri is a living saint and I'm just the worst fucking person who ever breathed every so fuck me right?”

“Wait. Okay, let me get this straight. You were feeling down after the injury, yeah?”

“Well, yes?”

“And I hate to bring it up but the doctors said you weren’t allowed extended rink time, only the odd session here and there – hence the choreo.” 

“Yep.” Victor pops the ‘P’ and flops onto his stomach on the couch. 

“So you were feeling lonely and sad because no more skating or whatever, you couldn’t see as much of Yuuri as you used to and your response to this was to… not say anything?”

“When would I have had the chance; he’s just so busy being amazing and wonderful all of the time.” It’s petty and childish and Victor would hate the whine in his voice any other day, but today he’s used all of the energy he had left to give an actual fuck. Chris laughs too, but the sound of it edges on bitter.

“When? Any of the millions of times you could have picked up the phone and called your husband.” 

“Hey!” Victor objects but Chris just steam rollers ahead, not giving him a chance to truly interject.

“Not hey, no way I’m giving you a _hey_ right now – while you’ve been brooding and unable to sleep, instead of rolling over and talking to the man you profess to love, you bottled it all up and built up this seething pile of negativity.”

“Chris,” Victor tires weakly. 

“No. Victor Katsuki-Nikiforov, you’re going to listen to me right now.” Chris laughs bitterly again, “You're an actual fucking idiot. You had your fairytale ending and you had your epic romance and now here you are complaining about your husband.” 

“That’s hardly fair, Christophe!” Victor protests, managing to break through Chris’ tirade for a minute. “It’s not as if Yuuri is innocent in this he’s been–”

“No, Vitya - I need you to _listen to me_. You had your fucking fairytale ending, but fairytales aren't real - there's no magic wand and no fairy godmother to fix everything. Love isn't some fix all for every idiotic personality trait, it isn't going to magically remove your depression or Yuuri’s panic and shit. _You_ have to do it. You _and_ Yuuri.”

“Chris!”

“Vitya, you _love_ Yuuri. Like not that teenaged ditzy silly love, but the kind of love that has a fucking bedrock a million miles deep underneath it. You’re not an idiot, no matter how many times you’ve played one for the PR circuit.” Chris sighs and Victor can feel the way his fingers shake as he grips his cellphone. “Even now, even angry and unhappy and petty as shit all of your fucking complaints are about Yuuri not being _around_. You _need_ him Vitya, you need him and love him.”

“I know I fucking _love_ _him_ Christophe.”

“Then why are you trying so hard to get away from him?”

“Because I’m fucking venomous right now and Yuuri doesn’t deserve to be poisoned alongside me.”

“Don’t you think that’s Yuuri’s decision to make?” Chris asks tartly and Victor is stumped. 

He’s fucking bamboozled.

“I…”

“Yes, dearest?”

“It’s not like it will change anything. I don’t understand why he’s holding on so tight when he’s obviously unhappy around me.” The words are hoarse, catching in weird ways as he tries to suppress tears once more. 

“You weren’t listening earlier were you? Vitya, you’re his entire fucking universe.” Chris sighs again and Victor can hear the emotion in his voice when he continues. “Victor, I love you. You’re my best friend and I never ever want you to be unhappy, you know all this. I don’t want to see you throw this all away because you managed to isolate yourself to the point of destroying your marriage.”

“I don’t kn–” The tears are back with a vengeance, spilling fat and heavily down to his chin. “I don’t know if I _can_ fix this Chris; I think I broke it beyond repair–”

“Oh no, Vitya darling. That Yuuri Katsuki-Nikiforov that you married never took defeat lying down – he’s probably hurt and upset and scared, but he’s not going to give up darling.” Victor can hear Chris’ tears on the other end. Victor sniffs loudly, it’s ugly and Chris laughs at him gently. “One day I’m going to meet a man who’ll fight that hard for me.”

“Mr Toronto wasn’t _the one_ then?”

Chris laughs, “Well actually… do you mind? If you need a little time to decompress then I’m not gonna derail the conversation, but I could use a little advice.”

“No, no. Go ahead, I’ve had enough of my drama this week.” _This lifetime_, he adds to himself as Chris hesitates for a moment on the other end, then rushed whatever he’s saying to the point that it’s garbled and incomprehensible. “Uh, what?”

“It… was Phichit?”

“What??” Victor had expected some kind of complaint about the clinginess of guys who’re only into Figure Skating ass or something, maybe a humble brag or two – but not this. “_Phichit_ – Phichit?”

“Do you know any other Phichits?” Chris laughs a little and Victor chuckles along.

“Funny. Now explain yourself!”

“It just happened? And it was kinda amazing? And I might want to text him incredibly badly but don’t even know what to say since he’s in Thailand probably and I’m up here at home… And as my resident ‘I had an encounter over one night with a guy who rocked my world and stole my heart’ expert, I thought I’d ask you?”

“Oh my god, why would you think that was a good idea? I spent months pining and then turned up at his families onsen unannounced!”

“Yeah, but it worked didn’t it?” 

“It did.”

“And it was worth it.”

Victor pauses for a second, thrown back to the days of being separated by these thin walls from Yuuri – of watching and waiting and wondering when Yuuri would notice that Victor was head over heels; those days of closeness that were so, so near to what he’d dreamed and hoped for so many months. The sweetness of those memories was soured by the knowledge of what they’d become, of the biting and snapping at one another, and the ways in which they’d learned to hurt each other so easily. 

But it was just as Chris had said: Fairytales don’t exist. No matter how rose-tinted glasses Victor had donned recently the fact remained – would _always_ remain – that he loved Yuuri. He loved him so much it _hurt_. It was probably _why_ it hurt. Victor had been so desperate to cling to Yuuri that he’d backed them into a corner, but they could fix it, he realised. They were _worth_ fixing…

“It was worth it.”

* * *

By the end of the call, Victor is sure of two things:

One: He’s been an actual idiot and hurt Yuuri and himself deeply, but it’s fixable.

Two: Phichit Chulanont is some kind of wizard or maybe a witch because the spell he’s cast on Chris is thorough and lasting.

“It’s been a week, Vitya. I think I’m going crazy.”

“You’re not; sometimes you just kinda know, I think? You should text him though – nothing too forward, just ‘hey I had fun the other night~’”

That decided, they hang up with a few running assurances from Chris that Yuuri probably won’t leave him immediately, and Victor takes a deep breath before he heads into the en suite to clean himself up. 

He might feel marginally better, but the mirror tells a distinctly puffier and swollen story; his eyes are red-rimmed from the crying and his cheeks are blotchy, his hair is a state and his bottom lip is swollen from being bitten. 

He’s a fucking mess, yet he smiles at his reflection. He feels almost giddy with purpose. It’s fixable, it’s _all_ fixable.

He cleans himself up quickly, not paying much attention beyond trying to ensure he doesn’t terrify any of the inn’s guests and heads downstairs in the hopes of trying to find Yuuri. He looks through the communal rooms downstairs, pops his head into the springs just in case Yuuri is trying to soak out the terrible day, and then heads back up to the family rooms with a frown.

It’s only when he’s passing the kitchen he finally locates his husband; he would have missed it if he hadn’t caught the sound of his name on Hiroko’s lips. Yuuri is in quiet conversation with his mother that rolls gently along to the sound of knives working.

“… it’s not for you to decide when and if you’ve hurt someone Yuuri. You might not even know how it began, but you _know_ Vicchan. He wouldn’t exaggerate these things, or lie about them.”

The use of the petname make Victor’s heart flip-flop in his chest. Chris had told him he’d been a selfish moron, but it’s only hearing the worry in Hiroko’s softly accented Japanese that truly hammers home just how closed off he’s been. 

“But I never meant to–”

“I know, but we don’t always _intend_ the hurts we visit upon the ones we love.” There’s a sigh that sounds all too frustrated and Yuuri-like to ignore and Hiroko makes a comforting noise in response. “It’s not about who hurt who and why, Yuuri. This is about how you’re going to win him back.”

Another heavy sigh, Victor can almost picture the way Yuuri would run a hand through his hair and frown. The words hurt even as Victor knows he’s done nothing to dissuade Yuuri of the fact. It’s the way Yuuri says it, he sounds so… lost. “I don’t think he wants me back okaasan. He ran from me today. I lashed out and he was so hurt and so upset, and I did that to him because he hurt me too. I wouldn’t blame him if he never wanted to see me again; I was so horrible. I just don’t know how to fix this – any of this.”

_It’s not only for Yuuri to fix._

The thought sounds annoyingly smug and a little too much like Christophe Giacometti for comfort, but Victor knows they’re right. Victor has to be there, he… has to meet him where he _is._

“Vicchan isn’t an easy man to read. He’s been too jaded by the spotlight for too long to be any other way when he’s hurt.” Hiroko sounds thoughtful as her knife resumes its million miles an hour chopping. “He’s not like you Yuuri; he doesn’t wear his heart on his sleeve… You need to talk to him – honestly and openly talk about however you got yourselves here and what you’re going to change in your behaviours to stop it from happening again.”

_She’s right._

“You’re right.” 

Victor could laugh if it wouldn’t alert Yuuri and Hiroko to their audience. It feels like the first time in forever that they’ve agreed on anything.

“I know I am, Yuuri.” Hiroko chuckles. “And I know that over the years I have watched you fall time and time again, and I have never seen you just lie down and accept it. You’ve always fought for what you love, Yuuri… Don’t let this be the time you’re beaten.”

* * *

Yuuri doesn’t come to find him immediately. Victor isn’t sure where he goes, but there’s a few hours where Victor whiles away time googling and wasting time. When Yuuri does surface it’s late and he rolls into bed exhaustedly as Victor is about to drift off.

“I’m… sorry – about earlier.” Yuuri’s voice is soft in the glow of the salt lamp, and the light is dim enough that Victor can barely see him. “What I said, it was horrible and awful and I wish I could take it back.”

There’s a lump in Victor’s throat and his eye’s prickle with feeling. “I know. I know you meant it and I know you didn’t mean to say it like that and… I’m sorry too. I've been terrible since the injury and I know it must have been hard trying to live with me and train and perform at the same time. I–”

“No, Victor this isn’t your fault!”

“Liar. This is all my fault.”

They speak in hushed tones, separated by inches on top of the covers – where once they would have crowded one another for warmth and comfort, now it feels like they’re miles apart… adrift from one another in a way they have never been in their relationship.

“This is my fault. It’s all my fault Yuuri.” He struggles against the weight of regret in his chest; it pushes down and down against his ribs and keeps his breathing shallow, even as sobs are building in his throat. “Yuuri I–”

“Oh!” It’s a shivery sound that’s pulled from Yuuri, alerting Victor to the fact that he is crying too. 

He’s not sure which of them reaches out first but they end up tangled together in the centre of the bed, clinging to one another as though they’re the last anchor point. 

“We can fix it. We can fix it.” The words come from Yuuri, whispered into the crook of Victor’s neck and punctuated by sniffles. “We can fix it, Vitya.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little warning that things get a little hot and heavy in this chapter, but there's no graphic or explicit-ness here. 
> 
> If you're looking to bypass then search for:  
"You're so beautiful."

Victor begins to call it  _ that day _ in his mind. 

After  _ that day _ things change. It’s small things at first – Yuuri watches him more, but not in a concerned or worried way as it had been after the surgeries; it’s as though they’re both hyper aware of each other. Yuuri watches Victor, Victor watches Yuuri, and hanging in between them is the feeling of something changing. Galvanising. 

Victor starts waking Yuuri in the mornings, he pokes and nuzzles and sheet steals in a way that makes Yuuri crinkle his nose and makes Victor smile. They eat together, side by side at every meal and stealing from each others bowls as they once did when they first got together and Yuuri would sneak pieces of meat from Victor’s dinner. They go out for a date, even – down to the tiny cinema and sit quietly together as the movie plays and Victor eats too much popcorn. It’s nice. It’s a little stilted on the walk home, but it’s nice.

They navigate around each other carefully, never truly connecting, but glancing off one another in gentle nudges that afford closer and closer proximity with each contact. 

They talk at night. It seems easier to be honest when they can hide in the dim light of salt lamps and warmth of the crisp sheets. 

Yuuri apologises a hundred times for not noticing how isolated Victor had become, for seeing but not understanding how deeply lost he felt without a place by Yuuri’s side on the ice. He talks about nights of anxiety on the other side of the planet, and not feeling able to help. Of the mindlessly circular anxiety that pulled him down and away and left him helpless in the face of Victor’s icy demeanour.

Victor doesn’t argue, he knows better than to even think of it when Yuuri is so apologetic and hurt himself. It’s almost comedic how easily they hurt each other in the face of their combined obtuseness.

Yet Victor is happy, mostly. 

It’s not the searing heat of their first night together, or the giddy happiness of proclaiming their love on and off the ice… but they can get back there together one day. 

Victor can’t wait to get back there, with Yuuri.

* * *

It’s after one of their dates that everything changes.

Victor had heard about a small market that was running in a part of Hasetsu he was unfamiliar with and had asked Yuuri if they could go have a look around. Yuuri had grinned and perked up immediately, enthusiastic about the idea and asked if they could make a day of it. 

The day they head to the market Yuuri is quiet. Not in a closed off way, but in a contemplative contentment that carries them across Hasetsu to the tiny market where the stalls are buzzing with life. There are people milling everywhere, and Yuuri doesn’t hesitate to pull Victor into the frey, zig-zagging between the press of teenagers on their day off and couples who’re investigating stationary stalls and trinkets.

Yuuri takes the lead, picking their way through the press and finding stalls packed with trinkets that Victor is immediately drawn to. He grips Victor’s hand and smiles that small smile of his and Victor doesn’t mention it. 

They spend an hour pushing through the crowd, buying curiosities and beautifully handmade gifts that Victor falls in love with at first sight, all the while Yuuri is smiling. Yuuri is happy, and it’s almost close enough to the brimming over of happiness that they’d once had that Victor doesn’t want to acknowledge it. It’s such a delicate thing that he doesn’t want to mention it for fear of the moment shattering. Instead he grips Yuuri’s hand all the tighter and smiles a small smile of his own.

They end up at a street food stall, Yuuri greeting the seller with a grin and wave that easily dismisses they man’s greeting and congratulations for Yuuri’s latest performance. It’s an easy interaction that peaks Victor’s interest because Yuuri is never easily casual with strangers, even in his hometown. The seller doesn’t even ask for an order, he just starts pulling together a couple of plates and turns to Victor with a bright smile.

“You must be the husband; I’ve seen you on the television many times!” His English is accented, but it makes Victor smile widely as the man trundles on without waiting for a reply. “This one used to be at my stall when he was a boy talking about you with his friends. They used to drive away custom if you can believe an old man! Yuuko brings the children now and that’s almost as bad as she and Yuuri were!” He laughs again, a twinkle in his eye as he watches Yuuri hiding his face in his hands, even in the protective grip of his fingers the blush creeps over the apples of his cheeks and ears in a way that melts Victor’s heart.

“Oh, that’s adorable!” Yuuri’s fingers part and he shoots Victor a helpless look from behind his hands. 

“Why do you think this one was so chubby? He was fed properly!” The man cackles and Yuuri stammers out a defence that’s mostly lost under Victor’s laughter. “He has done us all proud. He has worked very hard to become Japan’s number one.”

“I know he has; he’s still working hard every day to make you all proud.” It’s true. Yuuri has always felt the weight of expectation that comes with the titles he’s won and the battles he’s fought against his anxiety. Victor isn’t sure why that earns him a swift look from Yuuri himself, but there’s a warmth in the look that has Victor almost reeling.

“Anyway, enough of an old man’s ramblings. Here – ” The food is roughly shoved into Yuuri’s hands, earning another cackling laugh from the man who immediately refuses Victor’s money with a wave. “No, he kept my business running through the late 90s; he doesn’t pay.”

Victor laughs along again as Yuuri rolls his eyes and grumbles good-naturedly. 

“He seems… nice?” Victor doesn’t mean it to be a question, but Yuuri finally cracks a crooked smile and chuckles. 

“Yeah, nice isn’t really it. He used to threaten me and Takeshi with skewers if we didn’t behave when we were kids. He said if we were going to be ‘pains in his backside’ he’d repay the favour.” Yuuri laughs at that, Victor can’t really imagine a world where Yuuri would be a nuisance to anyone, but he can definitely imagine Takeshi leading a tiny chubby Yuuri astray with delicious street food. 

Victor steals a skewer from Yuuri and Yuuri retaliates by threatening Victor’s meal. It’s lighthearted and silly and Victor is grinning like an idiot as Yuuri grabs his hand and starts walking them away from the market.

“Where are we going?” 

“It’s a secret!” Yuuri throws a grin over his shoulder and pulls Victor along in his wake. Victor can’t think of anything he’d prefer right now than to be lead astray by Yuuri Katsuki-Nikiforov when he’s wearing a grin like that. A feeling which lasts all of about three minutes. 

Yuuri drags Victor to a roller rink.

_ A roller rink. _

“Uhm.” Victor stares at the sign with a dawning feeling of dread that can only ever be connected to the stomach-churning knowledge that eight wheels and nearly six-foot Russians have never been a good mix.

“Surprise?” 

“Uhm.” Victor can’t disagree, but Yuuri’s face falls anyway. The delicate balance they’ve been riding all day hangs on a precipice that is tilting suddenly, and Victor wishes he could kick himself for his own stupidity.

“Oh no. You hate it don’t you?”

“No!! No I don’t hate it I…”

“Victor you don’t have to – ”

“Yuuri I – ”

“We can just go – ”

“No! Yuuri I have to tell you something!” Yuuri stalls when he hears the rushed and panicky tone to Victor’s voice. Victor’s fingers tighten around Yuuri’s hand and he throws himself onto the altar of terrible confessions at inopportune moments. “I can’t skate.”

“Uh – ” Yuuri looks entirely baffled by the statement and just looks at Victor. “What are you talking about, of course you can skate, you just can’t skate competitively – ”

“ _ Roller skate _ . I can’t  _ roller skate _ Yuuri.” The confusion doesn’t shift, it just grows deeper in Yuuri’s expression. Victor soldiers on, doomed to his fate, now. “I mean – it's a totally different centre of gravity and the balance on four wheels is totally off and I’m too tall and – ”

“Oh my god.”

“ – and it’s just  _ wrong _ to skate on hardwood flooring Yuuri; think of all of those splinters – ”

Yuuri starts laughing helplessly. 

“ –b ut I’m sure I can do it this time!”

“Oh man. How many times have you tried?”

“How dare you ask me that Yuuri; I’m a professional.”

“How many?”

“Six.”

“Pfft.” Yuuri shakes his head wonderingly in the face of Victor’s idiocy.

“They were six very good tries Yuuri!”

“Perhaps they were, but you didn’t have me with you then.” Yuuri pulls Victor as he starts heading to the doors and gives Victor’s hand a squeeze. “Don’t worry; I’m an expert.”

Victor doesn’t worry. Instead,he watches blankly as Yuuri pays for them and gets them boots which Victor can’t help but shudder over even as he’s lacing himself into the horrible ungainly things. There are rubber stoppers on the front that look like they’ve been through a warzone, and the wheels are garishly neon in a way that only roller skates can be. Victor has to grip Yuuri’s hand again with his left, holding onto the flimsy barrier for dear life.

Now he’s worrying. In fact he may have bypassed worry and gone straight to panic as Yuuri tries to lead him into a crowd of giggling teenagers and J-pop blasting through speakers that sound like they’ve also seen the battlefield. Yuuri doesn’t relent though, he just keeps his hand in Victor's and turns to catch the other, skating backwards like some perverse affront to natural physics and making Victor shudder in his roller skates.

Then Victor loses his balance in a spectacular return to form and lands heavily on his bottom in a thump that takes a few seconds to register for Yuuri. Victor, on the other hand, is already attempting to get his feet back under him in a scramble of wheels and brakes that ends up with him on all fours with Yuuri watching him for a few moments before he breaks into laughter. 

“Oh wow, you really are terrible at this.” His eyes crinkle and he pulls Victor up with a tug that brings momentum. Yuuri pulls them once more with a grin, “Just let me do the hard work, okay?”

“Yes, yes. You’re the expert here.” It must sound terribly dismissive, but Victor is too focused on watching his own feet and hoping he doesn’t fall again to care right now. 

Yuuri laughs again. “Here, lets try this – ” He turns, Pulling Victor into his side and looping a hand around Victor’s waist snugly. Victor’s right arm settles over Yuuri’s shoulder in a sweep that speaks of years of working side by side  – of years of walking home from restaurants and pulling into one another's space. 

Of course it doesn’t work, because Victor is a disaster set to upbeat J-pop and can’t keep his balance on roller skates to save his life. But the feeling of holding Yuuri so close and the way their hips bump one another for the sweet second before Victor almost topples is so perfect, Victor feels like his chest is caving in with a happiness that spurs a laugh from his throat even as he grips Yuuri’s jacket to keep from pulling them both to the floor.

Then he catches sight of Yuuri. He’s turned again to pull Victor in, to keep their balance, to save them from falling. His hair is in total disarray and his cheeks are flushed and Victor  _ sees. _

Yuuri's laughing.

He's laughing and smiling and it's so genuine, so real that Victor can't help but kiss him. It's his default action whenever Yuuri smiles so brightly, ever since Beijing and quad flips and falling in love with a thump. Their lips connect and Yuuri freezes for a second. For a single moment in time they're both frozen and locked together before they break apart. 

Victor's heart feels like it's in free fall, turning top and tail in his chest as he waits for the inevitable crash landing. Yuuri looks almost as shocked, his eyes wide and searching. 

And then Yuuri smiles. Another of those blinding smiles that spears Victor straight through the ribs and right into his heart, and no shield or armour could ever protect him from it. 

Their next kiss comes quickly after. They're smiling into it, and Victor can feel the way his chest fills with the giddy happiness that had been missing for so long even as Yuuri's fingers slide into his hair to keep him in place. It's awkward and has Victor laughing into the kiss even as Yuuri deepens it. 

Victor's laughter then fails at that.

It fails because there's a current of energy that feels like it's dragging him into Yuuri's body with hands that grip Yuuri's jacket and fill the space between them with an intent that Victor knows from the years of being together. 

Yuuri  _ wants _ , and Victor has spent years being attuned to the way that the mood can flip on its head. It's something so ingrained in their relationship  – in their romance  – that it's practically a cornerstone. Yuuri had skated his eros a hundred times on the ice, but he had honed it on Victor's libido a thousand. They had taken eros beyond the sanitised and perfected routine and created something far darker and intentful within their own four walls. 

Yuuri isn't laughing anymore. Yuuri isn't playing and his intentions are loud and clear even as giggling teenagers circle them. They earn a couple of comments, a wolf-whistle, and someone yells 'Get a room!” loud enough that Yuuri pulls away minutely and chuckles darkly.

It's something of a miracle that they make it off the rink and out of their skates without Victor breaking his neck. It probably has a lot to do with the way he's clinging to Yuuri  – not the same clinging he'd done on entering the rink, the panic filled and ungainly cling  – this is a deep and needy clinging to keep the closeness they've regained. The kind of cling that had been so prevalent in the early days of their relationship, the kind of closeness that Victor hasn't felt in months and now he's too unwilling to allow a single inch to come between them.

Yuuri leads them through the streets of Hasetsu. They don't speak, they don't allow space between them. They walk hand in hand towards the Onsen as though they're being drawn there. 

It's quiet.

It's quiet when they arrive and slip into their house slippers. It's quiet when they head up the stairs hand in hand. It's quiet when the bedroom door closes behind them with a sigh that is mirrored in the hitch of Victor's breath when Yuuri captures his lips in an ardent kiss.

There's a whisper as Yuuri's jacket falls to the floor, a rustle as Yuuri's shirt joins it. They punctuate the loss of layers with more kisses there's barely a breath that isn't cut short by the other's lips. When Yuuri frees Victor from his shirt, his lips run the length of Victor's neck before travelling back and pulling their mouths together once more. The action has Victor's hands shaking in anticipation as he moves to the button of Yuuri's pants; his fingers move quickly as he removes the garment, letting it free and hooking his fingers into the waistband of Yuuri's underwear even as Yuuri does the same to him.

The moment hangs, their lips still glancing and touching even as Victor steps out of his trousers and kicks them away, pulling Yuuri with him as they make it to the bed. 

Their hands move along each other's bodies in paths well known, but there's a newness to their lovemaking that borders on discovery. It's closer, more intimate than they've been in so long that it's almost too much for Victor. It's not just fucking. It's not a means to an end or an itch that needs to be scratched. They're simultaneously taking each other apart piece by piece. 

Yuuri pushes Victor into the pillows, framing Victor's hips with his knees and hovering over him, just out of the reach of Victor's lips. Victor can tell that Yuuri isn't stalling, he's trying to pick a place to start, his bottom lip caught between his teeth in consideration. Victor could blush at the voyeurism, but he's staring back just as intently. 

Victor moves first, pulling Yuuri down into a searing kiss and flipping their positions, one leg thrown over Yuuri's thigh and pressing them close and tight together. Yuuri goes with the momentum, pulling Victor over until his arms can loop around Victor's neck and hold him there, feeling their chests pressing flush and the way their hips meet in a grind that pulls a soft moan from Yuuri's lips that shatters the silence. 

“Fuck – Vitya.” His fingers tickle over each of Victor's ribs before settling into the waistband of Victor's underwear again. It's the simplest thing to shift his hips and allow for the elastic to slip. It's so easy to rear back and watch the way Yuuri's breath catches at the sight as Victor eases the band of his underwear away. Once he's rid of his own, he pulls Yuuri's boxers from his legs without pause, luxuriating in the way Yuuri pulls him back in for another kiss that brings their hips flush. 

Victor feels like he's free-falling. Yuuri's hands are everywhere and his hips are moving in a filthy grind that leaves Victor panting helplessly against Yuuri's shoulder, completely at his mercy. “Yuuri…” It's a plea pressed into the damp skin at the base of Yuuri's throat, a purr that's pulled from a needy place that Victor can feel in the hollow of his stomach. 

“Yuuri, please…” Victor stills the roll of their hips and pulls away, staring down at his lover and seeing the flush of his chest and the way they're pressed together so tightly. Victor's hands are shaking again; they're unsteady as he brings Yuuri's hand up to kiss the fingers. 

Yuuri isn't faring any better, he lets out a ragged huff of breath at the action and his eyes are wide and searching for a short moment, “Vitya, I–” 

“Yuuri please.” He's breathless and his hair is probably a total disaster, but Yuuri is looking at him as though he's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. Yuuri leans up, meeting Victor halfway in a kiss that is just as sweet as their first. His fingers rake through Victor's hair and Victor finds purchase on the flat of Yuuri's chest, feeling the muscles shift and Yuuri stokes the length of Victor's spine and sends a shudder of feeling that rattles through him. 

“Victor. Victor, Vitya – you're so beautiful.” Yuuri's gaze is heavy with intent on Victor's face and Victor tries to turn from it for a moment, hiding the way his eyes prick at the words, knowing that they're so so true to Yuuri in this moment. He buries the pluck of his tears into Yuuri's palm even as Yuuri tries to guide him back into the moment.

“I love you.” It's a whispered confession into Yuuri's hand and the weight of it makes Yuuri's grip drop, his fingers dragging Victor's heart with them as Yuuri's back straightens and forces Victor up from his hiding place. 

Victor doesn't want to look, he doesn't want to see the expression on Yuuri's face for fear that they're still too broken to bear the burden of Victor's love. There's a sigh of a reply that fills the space between their bodies – but it's not the heavy burden that Victor had feared, it's a sigh of relief that's cut short by the rough hug that Yuuri pulls him into. Victor's astonishment has him looking down into Yuuri's face, pressed tight against Victor's stomach. 

"Thank you. I love you. I love you so much I– Thank you for giving me another chance." Yuuri gazes up, meeting Victor's eyes and his gaze is so full of adoration – so full of  _ love  _ that is takes Victor's breath away all over again. "I'm sorry I ever let you doubt how much I love you Vitya–" 

Victor  _ has _ to stop him, he has to silence him with another kiss that sears the edges of the love he feels cascading through his chest. He's wrong, he's so so wrong, and Victor has to kiss away all of the words that have built the wall between them and leave space – finally – for them to come back to one another again. 

He cups Yuuri's cheeks as he pulls away; he brushes the curve of his cheekbones and curls his fingers around Yuuri's fine jaw. "We. Not you.  _ We _ . We put ourselves there because we were idiots who couldn't hold a conversation.  _ We _ ."

Yuuri blinks up at him, fingers tightening around the meat of Victor's thigh and Victor can see Yuuri's heart in the way nods, his eyes bright. "Never again. Okay? Never again Vitya." 

Victor doesn't have to answer, his kiss is answer enough for both of them. 

* * *

Saying that Victor wakes up sore the next morning would be an understatement. His right knee is making its dislike of their activities known loud and clear and Yuuri takes one look at it and refuses to let him out of bed until its been thoroughly iced and he’s taken his meds like a good boy. 

  
  


But this time Yuuri holds Victor’s ice and snuggles with him afterwards. Yuuri gives him a good ribbing for his performance in the roller rink, and Victor returns the favour asking if he’d like to go for some skewers once Victor is able to march him down to the stall. It ends in a stalemate when a tickle fight turns into a kissing fight, and then Yuuri’s phone goes off on his bedside and ruins  _ everything _ .

“ _ Oh my god! _ ”

Victor is on high alert immediately; he picks up his own phone but there’s nothing there. “Yuuri? What’s wrong?”

“Oh my  _ god _ .” Yuuri turns his phone, showing Victor a screenshot of what looks to be someone's Google search history. He then pans to a screenshot of a text conversation that Victor can’t even focus on before he swipes to an incredibly close up image of Phichit Chulanont being physically assaulted by a six-foot Swiss man with terrible facial hair.

“Wow. That’s put me off my breakfast.”

“That's all you have to say?” Yuuri sounds totally outraged. “What the hell is even happening right now?”

“Um… Chrischit? Phichimetti?” Victor muses, Yuuri shoots him a horrified look. “I don’t know what the skating otaku are going to call them, but they’re going to be disgustingly pda all the time I think.”

“Wait – You knew about this?” 

“Not really, Chris called and said that he and Phichit had spent a night together in Canada during the end of the season, but I didn’t know if he’d even had the balls to text him.”

“Oh god.” Yuuri’s expression still hasn’t fully cleared. “Victor, they’re going to be  _ disgusting _ .”

“Oh yeah, Chris is totally head over heels, it's going to be horrible for everyone in close proximity.”

“You think Chris is going to be the worst? Phichit has had a crush on Chris since he was a moony-eyed teenager. He’s going to be  _ awful _ .” Yuuri glances down at the screen of his phone again, switching between the Google search page, which seems to be focused on finding images of Chris with his shirt off, and the text conversation, which is a copy of Phichit and Yuuri’s texts where Phichit is trying to wheedle info about Victor and Yuuri’s relationship when they’d first met. 

_ “Hey if you can bag crazy hot skater booty then anything is possible… mayhaps one day CG will fall madly in love with me and fly halfway across the world to ‘coach’ me too!” _

_ “Phichit it’s not  _ like _ that, Victor just wants to coach me!! You should be supporting me in my hour of pure panic and fear that he’ll find out I’ve had a fanboy crush on him since I was a skating fetus!!” _

_ “No can do you homosexual disaster. Enjoy your hand-delivered Russian Sausage ^_^” _

_ “I hate you and everything you represent please never contact me again.” _

_ “Wuv u too” _

_ “Sure you do you shithead. Love you. Now go work on some jumps before Ciao Ciao yells at me.” _

“Oh god don’t read all that–”

“But Yuuri, it's so cute! You  _ were _ a homosexual disaster.” Victor lifts the phone out of Yuuri's hand and holds it away from him so he can read it all. “Wow, I change my mind; Phichit is a wizard.”

“What are you talking about?”   
  
“Well, I did wonder if he was a witch because he’s cast a spell on Chris where all he can talk about is how amazing Phichit is, but look at this!” Victor enlarges the screenshot and starts reading from it in his best Phichit impression. 'Enjoy your hand-delivered Russian Sausage'? Amazing, he’s a visionary, or a psychic. And he was totally right, it was like  _ that  _ – just in case you missed the part where I flew from Russia just to see you again.”

“Some days I wonder what would have happened if I’d just jumped you the second I saw you.” Yuuri grumbles, locking his phone and shoving it back on the nightstand.

“Sex. Definitely sex. Really hot, flexible, and sexy sex honestly.” Yuuri laughs at that, but Victor sobers a little at the thought. “And then… I don’t know. I don’t know if we’d have gotten together really; without you remembering Sochi it would be a void that didn’t match up and I’d probably have felt like a booty call and... “

“Yeah, it’s funny though isn’t it? Me being a terrible terrible drunk got us here.”

“No, that got us to Cup of China; I think you’ll find my ability to judge depth perception while aiming kisses on ice got us here!” 

“Oh really? Care to test that theory on a more forgiving surface?” Yuuri quirks a brow and Victor can’t even believe this man; he’s utterly ridiculous and far too sexy for his own good while also being the biggest dork Victor Katsuki-Nikiforov has ever met.

Victor pretends to consider for a moment before he pulls Yuuri into a kiss that has their smiles melting from their faces, and the focus doesn’t get ripped away until Mari stomps past their door yelling that they’re missing lunch hours later.

* * *

The honeymoon period lasts – predictably in Victors opinion – until about seven minute into the arrival of a car full of figure skaters and their unreasonable amounts of luggage. Because of course Christophe arrives first. And of course he immediately corners Victor to wring every detail of Phichit’s itinerary from him and then immediately begins what Victor has always referred to as  _ The Lounge _ . 

Chris doesn't lounge like a normal human, he doesn't just stretch out and relax. Chris has always, and will always be too big in every way to do  _ that.  _ Instead he commandeers Victor's favorite couch and takes up  _ far too much space _ being lanky and annoying and generally bratty.

“Yuuko wants us to do the matching programs? Why?” Chris muses from the couch with an eye on the costume bags Victor is pulling from the wardrobe to steam later. “Does she have a death wish? That’s far too much sexiness for one Ice Castle!”

The noise Victor makes isn’t one of agreement, it’s more like confused annoyance but Chris takes it as assent and forges on anyway.

“Who else is in the line-up this year? I got the emails I just never looked. Is Emil skating? I love when Emil is skating because you know something incredibly unlikely but amazing is going to happen when Emil is in town. What about JJ, are we going to have to challenge the great King again this summer? You know I love knocking him down a peg or two!”

“Chris what are you talking about?” It might sound snappish, but Chris just gives him a slight frown in response.

“I’m talking about skating, idiot, what does it sound like?”

“It sounds like you’re in panic mode to be honest. Are you okay?” Victor asks, turning from the wardrobe to frown in return.

“I’m fine! Why wouldn’t I be?” But Victor can definitely hear the way his voice cracks on the words. 

“What’s wro–” Victor tries, but is interrupted by Yuuri coming to find out where they'd disappeared to. 

"Yuuri,  _ darling _ !" Chris croons from the couch, flinging a dramatic arm in greeting. "Come to find out what the two hottest retired skaters are doing in your bedroom hmm?" It's punctuated with a wink and a grin that Victor wants to kick him for. 

Mostly because Yuuri giggles and Victor should be in charge of making Yuuri laugh at all times, and yes he's being a petty shit but Yuuri's  _ his  _ husband and Chris is a known shit. 

"Mmh… I can only see one hot retired skater here…" Yuuri grins and loops his arms around Victor's middle, who has given up trying to wrangle the dry cleaning bag from one of his costumes because Chris has been distracting him since  _ the minute _ he'd arrived. Yuuri's chin hooks over Victor's shoulder as Victor leans into him and Yuuri takes in the mess that he's made of the stupid costume bag with an eyeroll. 

“He’s talking about me!” Victor says cheekily as Chris huffs a laugh.

“Yes dear, I’d gathered.” Chirs says sarcastically, but there’s a glint in his eye that speaks volumes to his regard. He watches Yuuri reach around Victor’s middle to free the sides of the bag, he watches the peck Victor gives Yuuri’s cheek and the smile that lights Yuuri’s face. 

“Guang Hong and Leo have just landed so I’m heading out with Mari to pick them up.” Yuuri squeezes his middle before he slips from the room with a vague wave in the direction of the couch for Chris.

“Good break so far?” Chris asks lightly, but the implication is clear as a bell.

“Better.” Victor answers immediately and Chris perks up. “Better than better actually. Amazing.”

“Oh Vitya.”

“Yes I know, you were right.” Victor grins as Chris pulls himself out of his lounge and into a hug. His impossibly long reach allowing him to grab Victor and drag him onto the couch with little effort.

“I wasn’t going to say that you idiot. I’m just happy for you. I’m happy for you both.” the reply is smiled into Victor’s shoulder. Victor allows the contact for a few seconds, letting Chris have his fill. Chris has always been a touchy person and he’s one of the few people that Victor really allows to be this close. 

“I’m happy for you too, by the way.” Victor says softly when Chris hasn’t yet let him up. Chris tightens his grip minutely at that. “I’m going to go out on a limb and guess you’re nervous about seeing Phichit again.”

“It’s silly, right?” Chris laughs, finally letting Victor out of his grasp and leaning back. Their legs are tangled but Victor knows that the closeness is helping Chris, even as he covers his eyes with a dramatic hand. “I saw him two weeks ago and it was  _ perfect _ Vitya. But I’m second guessing everything. I’m worried he’ll go off me or something equally childish and it’s ridiculous but here I am having a crisis on your couch.”

“Hey! This is my crisis couch!” Victor playfully shoves Chris, who looks mildly confused for a second before Victor grins. “It’s okay, we can be Retired and Existential together darling.”

“Wow, thanks.” 

“I’m a saint, I know.” Victor grins, “But I don’t think you have anything to worry about, Phichit is head over heels for you according to my delightful and perfect husband.”

“You think so?” Chris’ voice is small but Phichit’s answer is a huffed laugh from the doorway. 

“I  _ know _ so, you big idiot.” Chris’ hand drops and his face is a mask of blank surprise for about three seconds before he leaps out from under Victor’s legs and nearly trips in his rush to greet his boyfriend. There’s an interminable few seconds of noises that Victor politely ignores before Phichit speaks again. “Honestly, I leave you alone for two weeks and off you go being stupid and maudlin.”

“It’s not my fault!” Chris protests even as he’s smiling and dragging Phichit into a hug that pulls his feet from the floor. “Blame the couch, it has that effect on people.” And this is followed by a kiss that Victor attempts to ignore in vain, mostly because even as he averts his gaze the noises are far too loud and close for comfort.

“Uh, guys… you’re blocking the door.” Yuuri sounds far too polite when he pipes up, but Victor doesn’t have to wait long to see the mortification on his face. He squeezes past Chris and Phichit with the look of a man who’s seen too much in his short life and collapses beside Victor with a huff. “I told you they’d be disgusting.”

“Honestly, I’m not arguing.”

“Hey! We’re not disgusting!” Phichit’s protest is somewhat ruined by the fact that Chris is now peppering kisses on his neck and snuggling in from behind him. “And you’re not helping!” He adds with a swat to Chris’ side that Chris grins at, but relents, allowing Phichit to take a seat on the other couch and snuggling up next to him. “So – when are we going for our double date?” 

“Double date?” Victor replies, his voice mirroring the horror he’s feeling.

“Oh my god!” Yuuri moans.

“Yes! Double date!” Phichit cheers, even as Yuuri’s burying his face in Victor’s shoulder. “Tonight I think! That way we start off the show week with a bang!"

"Oh god no!" Yuuri moans but Phichit just grins at his best friend and says brightly. 

"Perfect, then it's settled!" 

* * *

The double date is wonderful, actually. 

They head out to Nagahama Ramen and chat idly about the upcoming week and Phichit takes the lead in ordering them a bottle of warm sake without even asking anyone the moment they’re lead to a private room, but the sake is smooth and the conversation is bubbly and light and Chris spends half of his time staring dreamily at Phichit as he gestures wildly and tells anecdotes about Celestino. Yuuri chimes in with a few of his own and then Chris and Victor end up trying to out-do one another with throwbacks to their first coaches that has Yuuri snorting into his meal and Phichit laughing hard into a glass of water.

It’s something about the lighting, Victor thinks – or maybe it’s the sake and conversation – but Victor finds himself leaning heavily into Yuuri once their meals are finished and they’re just drinking and catching up. Yuuri accepts the bulk of his husband with a comforting arm and a kiss to the top of his head. 

Chris catches his eye for a moment and the smile he aims at Victor is indulgent and happy even as Phichit prods him in the arm and complains that Chris isn’t listening to him. It’s funny and sweet the way Chris’ face falls into lines of indignance and he pulls Phichit to his side and stares directly at the side of his face intently for the next few minutes – until Phichit flaps a hand at him, laughing and blushing a little at the regard.

It’s actually adorable and Victor has to completely rethink his and Yuuri’s assessment of Chris and Phichit as a couple. They fit together in a way that shouldn’t work and Victor can feel the chemistry fizzing between them, a give and take that he sees so much in himself and Yuuri that he can’t help but smile as Chris slouches back on his hand with a cup to his lips Phichit beside him, smiling and talking to Yuuri at a million miles an hour with a hand on Chris’ knee. 

Comfortable.

They’re so comfortable and Victor feels the tiny bit of worry – the itch of an anxious voice that had niggled at him, waiting until they were tucked into bed and silent to claw at the fragile happiness that he’d built up through the day – that he and Yuuri had only just got their feet back under them and now their happy bubble was going to be snatched away once more by the reality of careers and people and expectations.

Yet with Chris and Phichit, it’s still  _ them _ . There’s not any expectations, no need to perform or to micromanage their interactions. Yuuri is getting a little drunk and the balance has shifted to Yuuri leaning on Victor and snuggling in, jumping back up whenever Phichit or Chris say something that needs to be immediately debated. It’s funny and sweet and Victor watches Yuuri with cheeks that warm just watching the way he and Chris and Phichit interact.

Phichit drags Yuuri out by the hand when they’re leaving, far too energetically for Yuuri’s stumbling step and they’re laughing and clinging to each other a little drunkenly in the street as Chris and Victor join them. Yuuri pulls Phichit into a sort of one armed hug and attempts to give him a nuggie that ends up with them flapping hands at one another in a mock battle that Chris watches smiling. When Victor is caught in his regard Chris grins at him and loops their arms, “They’re ridiculous aren’t they?” 

“No more than us,” Victor smiles, caught up in the bubble of good feeling he’s been riding all night. “Shouldn’t we be the mature ones here or something?”

“Oh, Vitya –  _ how could you?” _ Chris’ scandalised tone is offset by the mirth in his eyes and the way their shoulders brush as they follow their partners. “Mature, us? I think not darling. We’re  _ timeless _ .”

Victor feels  _ timeless _ in that moment. The streets are warm as they walk back to the inn and they bump into Emil and Michele - the former of whom jumps at Chris and Victor and grabs them happily, crowing his delight at seeing them and pulling Michele in his wake even as the latter grumbles about annoying idiots who need to mind their distance. It’s a tumble of limbs and silliness that has Victor laughing as Yuuri extracts him from the fray, only to be set upon himself. 

He feels light and happy, with Yuuri’s hand reclaimed and their friends chatting around them. The moment could stretch on forever, it feels, and Victor basks in it as they make their way home.

* * *

**Epilogue**

Nothing is forever, Victor has learned. 

Yuuri’s illustrious skating career ends in his retirement when they’ve celebrated their fourth wedding anniversary, and the apartment in St Petersburg lasts only a handful of months after that. They fall into the grip of memory, Yuuri taking up residence in Hasetsu with Victor by his side and family surrounding them to welcome them into their new home. 

They work together, coaching and choreographing from Ice Castle and spending afternoons walking the length of Hasetsu beach. It’s quiet on weekdays when the kids are all at school and the beach has only the occasional dog walker to watch them as they walk quietly side by side.

Things change.

They host Onsen on Ice every year, but even there things change – the people change, skaters retire or marry or feel too old to skate. Victor relates to that a little more than Yuuri, his knee tight as he laces himself into his skates which always feel too pristine these days. Gone are the days where his skates had been well worn from use.

He and Yuuri change, a little, they’re closer than ever now they’re in constant proximity. They rarely argue, they don’t fight, and they Talk.

They skate Stammi Vicino at every exhibition. 

The time changes Stammi just as it changes them. The heart of it stays the same, though. The routine is so perfect now its like breathing, even though the jumps aren’t quads anymore and they skip the lifts because they'd fallen in the past, the heart of the program is in their love shining through and it shows on the ice. Yuuri is radiant at 40, still the most beautiful sun in Victor’s universe and he's so proud of how strong they've become together. 

The last message that Victor and Yuuri leave on the ice is one of the love they found and the love they created upon it, etched deep into the surface with the years of their hearts being carried together, between them. Their last is their first and their forever, their timeless love. 

It’s not perfect, nothing truly is, but they're working on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is… a lot. It was a heavy hecking burden from start to end and it was neverendingly difficult for me, especially, to write. 
> 
> When I started to produce content for this fandom I was a tiny nerd in a sea of nerds and through publishing my crappy crack fics and interacting with folks in the comments and on social media I’ve met some of the most amazing people in my life. 
> 
> Those people are why this fic happened, why this fic exists and why it got finished. They’re the people who I turn to in my sad moments, the people I want to run to when I want to celebrate, the people who are so much a part of my life every day that I can’t thank them enough for putting up with my stupid cracky ass.
> 
> So, this is for the guys in the Angstbang chats who yelled and cheerlead, even while we all had a mutual meltdown over the pain we were visiting upon each other. It’s a fic written for my Bedtime buddies who had to also put up with my pained vc whining while I put the boys through all this hell. It’s for all of the people who read it, and feel even a smidgeon of emotion for all the pain I’m inflicting on you all.
> 
> Most of all this is for Meg, Soph, Lizzie, Iz, and Lena. You guys made this fic happen in the realest, most bruised ego from all the trolling kinda way. You made this fic fun in a way that wouldn't have been possible if I'd tried to write it alone, you made it amazing and you made me laugh through the rough patches. Thank you, I love you guys so much that I can’t even put it into words.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudo and comments are the lifeblood of my peopleeeeee
> 
> but also I hope you all enjoy this!


End file.
